The Scream

by John Skipp; Craig Spector

  Jake didn’t look impressed. The attendant came back, started scissoring off the fabric of Jake’s shirtsleeve. Jake winced in pain with every snick of the blades.

  “Guess I’m not Superman, after all,” he muttered.

  Hempstead looked at his best friend and shook his head. “Ye-eah,” he replied. “I guess not.

  “But you still sing real pretty.”

  * * *

  * * *

  MONDAY, MARCH 23

  STEWARTSBURG, PA

  A lot of things changed in eighteen months. The wheels kept right on turning; bringing the end of some things. And the beginnings of others.

  The aftermath of the Labor Day Massacre was as lurid as it was predictable. While the survivors offered little in the way of unified consensus as to what had actually happened inside the arena—too many conflicting reports, tales that smacked loudly of mass psychosis and hysteria—the evidence left behind spoke plainly for itself:

  The arena itself was heavily damaged, but not destroyed; it got a hiatus and a face-lift and would live to see Disney on Ice yet again. The crowd was not nearly as fortunate. Accurate body counts were, of course, impossible; by the time the fire was brought under control the purity of the human stew on the floor of the arena had been greatly diluted with ash and debris, water and chemical fire-fighting foam. Conservative estimates ran to well over six thousand dead at the Spectrum Sports Arena, killed by blast, fire, smoke inhalation, gunshot wounds, and general mayhem. They were bagged, hoisted and hosed away.

  Another hundred and fifty-three bodies found at The Scream’s Staten Island estate: some freshly butchered and hanging, most painstakingly exhumed from the walls and grounds over the following months.

  Sixty-eight dead at Rock Aid.

  And while wild speculation flooded both the press and the Senate subcommittee hearings that sprang up in the wake of the tragedy, in the end, there was only one possible conclusion: that The Scream, for reasons known only to the late band members, had willfully murdered their fans in a series of delusional and apparently satanic rituals that ultimately backfired, costing them their own lives.

  The reason why, however, was much less apparent. The members of The Scream were permanently silenced. And their manager, shadowy multimillionaire Joshua Walker, could not be reached for comment; had, in fact, disappeared entirely.

  That left everyone else to fill in the blank.

  And the legend was born.

  Salt Lake City, Utah. Three teenagers are tried and convicted for the ritual slaying of six-year-old Patty Robertson. Police arriving at the scene found the girl’s nude body, hideously mutilated, inside a burning pentagram while her killers danced and chanted to The Scream’s “Critical Mass.” They claim they were trying to “raise a demon” and swear that “Momma will be back.” They also claim to have chosen the victim because “her name was perfect.” It is the fifth such reported incident in the wake of the Labor Day Massacre.

  Detroit, Michigan. The number of Scream-related self-mutilations in this city rises to thirty-seven, culminating in a bizarre wedding ceremony, as twenty-year-old Alvin White and his sixteen-year-old bride, Carrie Cain, exchange ring fingers instead of rings and proclaim themselves “married in the eyes of Momma.”

  New York City. Despite the passage of a modified version of Congressman Shrake’s “Devil Rock” legislation, and the efforts of community groups nationwide, sales of The Scream’s Critical Mass album continue to climb toward the ten million mark; and though Bedlam Records has earmarked half of all proceeds for a victims’ compensation fund, the legal battle still rages over whether the album should continue to be sold at all. . . .

  The struggle was still going on, of course. The struggle would go on forever. Hempstead had been right about that much. You wouldn’t think a guy with a mohawk could be that smart; but there it was.

  Today, the struggle was back where it belonged: on The Dick Moynihan Show. Jake was only sorry that he could not attend. There was way too much to do, what with the new album coming out and the new band about to tackle the Rigors of The Road. Bob and Bob were gone, having long since taken that gig with The Del-Rays, but with some searching they had found a new, improved rhythm section, and Hempstead was still on hand and Jesse and even a little of Pete, thanks to the many guitar samples that Jess had made. The band was on its feet again.

  At long last, he mused, smiling to himself. Amen.

  The Moynihan show was still bloodlustingly terrific. Good ol’ Yke was back, for one thing: blond and abrasively good-natured as ever, holding the beleaguered rock ’n’ roll banner high. So was the fabulous Esther Shrake, looking chipper and smug in the light of her hubby’s ace legislative support.

  A lovely surprise, though not entirely unexpected, was the appearance of Pastor Paul Weissman, the new director of Liberty Christian Village, defending his ministry’s recent appeal for a ten-million-dollar miracle. He had taken over shortly after the Labor Day debacle, when Pastor Furniss effectively disappeared from the ministry and public life. Weissman had always been a cold little shit, and it was obvious that he was getting off on the power of his new position.

  Of course, if those allegations of financial mismanagement and sexual abuse at the Village came through, well . . . maybe Pastor Paul would be made to recall that his God was a just God. And a vengeful one, too.

  Whatever. Regretfully, Jake couldn’t really pay attention to the show. It was hard to concentrate with two crazed midgets in the room, even if one of them hadn’t even made it to the toddler stage yet. Little Peetro could scoot like nobody’s business, faster even than Natalie at her peak. He was a great kid, no question about it: bold and bright and beautiful. He already made a hellacious racket on his miniature plastic Menudo guitar.

  And, yes, he had his father’s eyes.

  Jesse cruised across the Twilight Zone floor and scooped her nearly-year-old son away from the upside-down sneaker he had begun to chaw. “Nuh-uh, kiddo. Don’t eat Uncle Ted’s stray Reeboks. No.”

  “Petey’s crazy.” Natalie observed, sidling up to Jesse from behind. She was two point three years old now, and precocious as all get-out.

  “Who isn’t?” Jesse caught a string of little Pete’s drool on her forearm.

  “Uh-huh,” Natalie shot back, then took off in the direction of the kitchen, where the opening of the oven door meant that the next batch of Rachel and Gram’s carob almond cookies were ready. Jake and Jesse watched her go; baby Pete was still looking at the rubber-soled object of his passing desire.

  Then Jake turned his gaze to Jesse.

  Her decision had not been easy. She, more than anyone, had not come away from that night unchanged. When the smoke cleared and the wounds healed, her life was still sitting there: waiting for her to make up her mind about a number of things.

  It had not been easy. No way. But somehow, for her anyway, it had seemed right. Too much death already, maybe. Pete’s legacy, a living reminder that love was, if not the most powerful force in the world, at least the most persistent.

  She had precious few regrets.

  And the music was better than ever.

  The Symphony of Life, as such, continued to grow almost as fast as the squirming bundle in her arms. She suspected it always would. And a surprising number of the new sounds and textures managed to sneak into the arrangements on The Jacob Hamer Band’s new album, Through the Fire. Whether that accounted for its popularity, she was not prepared to say. It didn’t really matter in the end. Credit didn’t really count.

  Contact did.

  “How’s Pee-wee?” Ted asked, walking over and scarfing up the squiggling tot. “Is he ready to rock and roll?”

  “Ready as he’ll ever be.” Jesse smiled, handing him over. A warm glow burgeoned in her heart when she saw Ted handle the urchin. He looks so much older than eighteen, she noted, and not for the first time. You could see it in his body, you could see it in his eyes: the child giving way to the man. His skin was still pocked with tiny pit
ted scars—by now she doubted that those would ever go entirely away—but that only seemed to enhance his character. He took it in stride.

  “We’ll miss you,” she said.

  “Hey”—he smiled as little Pete gnawed enthusiastically on his finger—“I’ll miss you, too. But it’s only three months. You’ll be back in time for my graduation even.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “You better not.” His eyes sparkled, meeting hers.

  Jesse smiled. Seeing Ted holding her child like that, she couldn’t help feeling the wash of love, and hope, and quietly biding terror. It wasn’t the best time to be coming of age, she thought. There was, after all, a war going on.

  But then again, she added, wasn’t there always?

  The letters came every two or three months now. It had been that way since November and his release from Haverford State Mental Hospital. Picking up the jagged pieces of one’s obliterated life took time, after all.

  Mary Hatch knew all about picking up the pieces.

  She sat on the floor of her Diamond Bar bedroom, running her toes through the rust-colored shag carpet, the shower-damp towel still draped around her. Her hair was longer than ever; it fell nearly down to her tail end, completely covered her breasts. They were still little larger than your average tangerines, but somehow that didn’t much matter anymore.

  She held the envelope in her hands for a moment, picking up the vibes off the paper. Not bad. He had certainly come a long way since the breakdown; it was no longer scary to learn what was going on inside his mind. The frazz factor was gone; he seemed much closer to the peace he had paid lip service to so loudly for so long.

  Mary smiled, warm inside the white light that seemed to surround her always.

  Then she opened the envelope, noting the Philadelphia postmark, removed the letter, and began to read.

  Dear Mary,

  The last snow of the season has gone now, God willing. Soon, the streets will be warm enough for my people to go back out and get on with their lives. The hope is, of course, that something will touch them in the course of their stay here. But the Lord, as we both know, works in mysterious ways.

  Nonetheless, things are going well here at the mission. We’re housing up to forty people a night, and the soup kitchen hands out perhaps three hundred meals a day.

  Mildred has adjusted well to our new lifestyle; she seems much happier now that the trappings of false faith are gone. She is certainly happier with our relationship. We run a Ma and Pa type of affair here. No big stuff: just she and I and a few stalwart volunteers. And of course, the people whose lives we have been charged with.

  That’s the beauty of true faith, Mary. That’s the beautiful thing you taught me, the thing that has sustained me after everything else collapsed. True faith is subtle, not ostentatious. It needs not things; it is the thing. I don’t know how many years I preached the Gospel without taking that one most sacred tenet to heart.

  For as Jesus said in Matthew 20, verses 27-28: “And whoever desires to be first among you, let him be your slave—just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve. . . .”

  Anyway, God bless you. I hope you are well and wish you all the best in whatever you are chosen to do. The Lord has a special love for you and a special purpose. When the moment comes, I trust with all my heart that you will be up to it.

  And that, after all, is the essence of faith.

  My love to you,

  Dan Furniss

  “I love you, too,” Mary whispered to the room, and the faraway former pastor. She was, strange as it was to admit, very proud of him. If there was a lesson to be learned, then certainly he had learned it. Yes, the one who served most humbly would be the most exalted; and no, Jesus would not wear a Rolex on his television show. The fact that Daniel Furniss no longer had either was a major step in the right direction.

  As for her own role . . . well, he was right again. For now, the things to do were very basic. Finish school. Prepare for college, where she intended to major in theology. There was so much she needed to learn and discern for herself. There were so many versions of the Word of God, after all: each one corrupted at some point along the line, certainly; but nonetheless, all of them were rooted in the sincere desire of the eternal human spirit to understand the eternal questions.

  Why we are here.

  What it all means.

  And what is our ultimate purpose.

  She didn’t know what her ultimate purpose was, but she was pretty sure that, if there was one, she would be the first to know.

  And like the man said: that was, after all, the essence.

  The essence.

  Of faith.

  Joshua Walker sat at the otherwise empty table in the otherwise empty room, staring at the objects laid out before him. They were the talismans of his nightly ritual, the one constant in an otherwise ephemeral existence. As rituals go, it was not entirely unpleasant, filled as it was with an element of mystery and purpose and risk. He had engaged in it every night before sleep, without fail, for the last eighteen months. Every night, for the past eighteen months, he had slept soundly.

  The table this evening was in the very back of the hot, solitary cervecería of the village of Nahuatla, a tiny dot of backwater civilization carved high into the rocky green hills of the Honduran countryside. It had been his temporary sanctuary for the last few days and depending upon the outcome, might be for the next night or so. Then he’d move on, shape-shifting his way across Central America, once again where he truly belonged. A living ghost, in the killing machine.

  The locals feared him as they would any crazy yanqui, of whom there were plenty these days. He had money, he had weapons, he was maybe CIA, maybe not. He was scary enough that nobody felt like asking. They served him his drinks and stayed out of his path. This suited Walker just fine: involvement on any scale was a distraction to his purpose, and Joshua Walker was determined to fulfill that purpose.

  He surveyed the talismans before him: a shot glass of rum, a .44 revolver, and a single hollow-point bullet.

  Joshua smiled.

  God is one funny son of a bitch, he thought. He picked up the revolver in his left hand and the hollow-point in his right. The bullet was tarnished from the sweat of repeated handlings. It was a very special bullet, he knew; so special that he’d had it engraved about six months ago in a dusty little locksmith’s shop in Mexico City. The surface of the cartridge was scored in tiny, floral script:

  Joshua Walker. Paid In Full.

  He placed the bullet in a random chamber and spun it. Yeah, He’s a real card, all right, he thought. Likes things mysterious. Can’t just say it straight out, no . . . There was no longer any bitterness in the thought, just a sense of incontrovertible realization.

  . . . it’s got to be a passion play, every time.

  Walker stopped the cylinder randomly in mid-spin. He laid the gun down on the scarred, dried wood of the table.

  It’s got to be Jesus and Judas, right and wrong, heaven and hell . . .

  He grasped the gun, as he had every night for the last eighteen months. He gave it a vigorous twist this time, virtually insuring a few extra revolutions. He did that, periodically, just for the added sense of mystery. Not that it ultimately mattered.

  While the innocents die, again and again . . .

  The gun spun expertly in place. It was American-made, bluesteel, and very well balanced, and he’d had lots of practice. It went round and round, making a scuffling, whirling sound that sent the waiter hustling over to whisper to the bartender. Crazy goddamned gringo.

  Walker watched the gun go round as his thoughts rolled back over the last five-hundred-odd days. He wondered about Momma, that bitch. Was It a demon? Or was it just an opportunistic sentience, cashing in on our fear? Who knew. All he really knew for certain was that It was lurking out there. Its stink was everywhere. Every new atrocity these days wore Its signature, every undisclosed body dump bore mute witness to Its presenc
e. Walker had even found a blasted cassette of The Critical Mass in the blood-streaked mud of his last ambush site. Soundtrack music for a real-life movie. He’d squashed it underfoot and left it there.

  Momma was here, no doubt. On both sides, playing each against the other for Its sole aggrandizement. Also here were Momma’s fans, in increasing numbers, what with the commitment of fresh combat troops and the escalated fighting that followed the invasion of Honduras. It was a statistical probability that some of them were even survivors from that fateful weekend in Philly. But then, so was he, and in a strange way that sort of evened the odds.

  Momma knew it, too, and It was pissed off. It couldn’t reach him anymore, even if It could still taint the hearts and souls of so many of the poor dumb fuckers pitched into this geopolitical insane asylum. Emotional scar tissue was funny like that; he’d turned his in like a winding sheet, and found it remarkably protective. He could still feel, oh, yes; perhaps more than ever before, which helped explain his continued sense of mission. But the heart-scars shielded him somehow. Perversely so; the detachment actually gave him an edge, one that It had never anticipated.

  That’s not much, he amended, but in hard times that would have to do. More fun from our pal God. Fucker always stacked the odds in favor of evil, it seemed, giving the one side a David to go up against the inevitable Goliath, then giving that same side only the tiniest shred of hope to hang on to. Not for the first time, he felt himself squarely in the midst of complete and utter madness. Maybe Mark Twain was right: if God existed at all, He must surely be a malign thug.

  Or maybe He just liked the odds. Maybe He was a gambler at heart. Walker could appreciate that well enough; he’d seen enough of what was at stake to last a lifetime. And he’d played the long odds every single night for the past eighteen months.

  The gun stopped spinning. The barrel pointed straight at his heart, just as it had every night for the past year and a half. Same as it ever was . . .