The End of the World Club

by J; P Voelkel

The guards dragged her, still screaming, off the stage.

  Ah Pukuh, who seemed to think the evening was going swimmingly, waved her good-bye. “It seems the bride has a tender heart.” He looked down at the blue guy. “And speaking of hearts, it’s time to say adiós, amigo.…”

  “Eh-stop!” screamed the blue guy. “Eh-stop!”

  Santino?

  Santino?

  Max felt sick, confused, terrified, frozen to the spot.

  His makeup running and his lipstick smeared, Ah Pukuh’s eyes glittered with bloodlust as he raised the dagger high above Santino’s chest.

  “Prepare to die, you wretch!” he thundered.

  “Eh-stop! Eh-stop!”

  Bang!

  The sound of gunfire somewhere in the palace broke Ah Pukuh’s spell. The crowd, suddenly galvanized, began to scream and run.

  Ah Pukuh looked around in irritation. This was his favorite bit of the program, and he was losing his audience.

  “Prepare to die, you wretch!” he repeated, in his most menacing god-of-violent-and-unnatural-death voice.

  But no one was listening.

  Panic was sweeping through the room.

  “Fuego! Fuego!”

  There was an intense smell of smoke.

  “Fuego! FUEGO!”

  People were fighting to get out of the crypt.

  “FUEGO! FUEGO!”

  Now distant fire alarms could be heard in the palace above.

  Count Antonio de Landa’s ears pricked up. He listened for a few moments. He sniffed the air. And then, still wearing the Yellow Jaguar necklet, he flew down the stage steps like a bat out of hell and barged through the screaming partygoers to make it to the stairs.

  “Come back! Come back!” screeched Ah Pukuh, but the bridegroom was gone. The god of violent and unnatural death was furious as he looked around the crypt. No one was listening to him anymore. His big moment was lost.

  As Max tried to slip away, he brushed against a cymbal.

  Ah Pukuh wheeled around, incandescent with rage.

  “Are you still here, you worm?” he thundered. “I have a good mind to finish you off, right now. Choose how you want to die, Max Murphy. As long as it’s violent and unnatural, I will be happy to oblige.”

  A sprinkler system burst into action above his head.

  Max watched, openmouthed, as the resulting downpour gouged streaks into Ah Pukuh’s makeup, plastered his long hair to his skull, and saturated his robes, making them cling repulsively to the rolls of fat beneath. Even for a dweller of the underworld, it was not a good look.

  “What are you staring at?” Ah Pukuh asked, hurling the sacrificial dagger at Max’s heart. Max grabbed a cymbal to use as a shield, and the dagger bounced off it with an ominous crash.

  Cowering behind the bass drum, Max decided this was probably not a good moment to confront the god about giving away the Yellow Jaguar.

  “I’ll get you, Max Murphy,” snarled Ah Pukuh as he squelched offstage. “You and everyone you know are dead meat.”

  Max extricated himself from the drums, retrieved the dagger, and ran over to the altar, where Santino appeared to have passed out.

  “Wake up!” shouted Max, shaking the law student’s shoulders.

  Santino opened his eyes, took one look at Max, and screwed them tight shut again. “Eh-stay away from me, you devil!” he said.

  “Santino!” repeated Max, more urgently. “Wake up! We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Santino opened one eye. “How do you know my name?”

  “It’s me, Max Murphy. You rescued me from the police station this morning.…”

  Santino studied Max’s features. “No,” he said. “You have black hair. Max Murphy is a pelirrojo.”

  Max sawed at the ropes with the dagger. “I haven’t got time to argue. There’s a fire; we need to get out of here.”

  “Is it really you? But you were supposed to leave eh-Spain tonight.”

  “I took the wrong bus,” said Max. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for Señorita Lola, of course. You said Antonio de Landa was the only person she knew in eh-Spain, so I thought it was worth coming to eh-speak with him. Why did she not tell me that she was betrothed?”

  “Let’s go ask her in person,” said Max, cutting through the last rope.

  “No,” said Santino, sitting up and rubbing his wrists and ankles. “She has made a fool of me. I never want to see her again.”

  “At least, let’s find out what’s going on …?”

  “All I need to know is that I was nearly eh-slaughtered tonight. I am going to the police.”

  “Please don’t, Santino!” begged Max. “I can’t explain now, but one day soon, you’ll know what this was all about. The whole world is in danger, and it’s up to me to save it.”

  Santino regarded him with pity. “Are you not a little old for such games?”

  “It’s not a game. Besides, do you really think the police will believe that Landa threw a party in his family crypt, and the Maya god of lineage came back and showed him his ancestors? Or that the Maya god of violent and unnatural death, who was posing as the manager of a rock band, tied you to an altar and tried to sacrifice you?”

  “Doña Carmela was right about you,” said Santino. “You are evil, Max Murphy.”

  In a flash, he had grabbed the dagger and jumped off the stage, his blue skin disappearing into the darkness of the crypt and the stairs beyond.

  The smell of burning was getting stronger.

  “No! Wait! I’m one of the good guys!” called Max, but Santino was gone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  AN UNHAPPY REUNION

  As he climbed up the stairs from the crypt, Max wondered who’d be waiting at the top. Ah Pukuh? Count de Landa? Or Santino Garcia, armed with the razor-edged sacrificial dagger?

  At this point, he didn’t know which one of them scared him more.

  In the event, he fell over the skinny, leather-clad legs of Vince Vermin, who was lying facedown on the floor.

  “Vince! Are you okay? You’ve got to get out of here. All this smoke—”

  Vince groaned. Already too weak to stand from smoke inhalation, the lead guitarist was fading fast.

  Max turned him over, grabbed him by the armpits, and pulled him backward along the corridor. Vince was surprisingly light for an adult. But then again, Max speculated, punk rockers had to be thin to look good in leather pants.

  The palace was in chaos. There was much screaming and wailing and a faint smell of barbecued pork. Liveried servants ran to and fro with hoses and buckets of water.

  Max found some French doors and dragged Vince out into the night air. The earlier heavy rain had given way to light drizzle, and he collapsed with his cargo onto the wet grass.

  “You’re safe now,” he said, panting from the exertion of his rescue effort.

  Gradually, Vince regained consciousness. “Wow, that was intense,” he mumbled. “I owe you one, kid.”

  Max smiled. “That’s easy. Give me a shout-out when you play Boston in the fall. Ah Pukuh gave me front-row tickets.”

  “Boston? In the fall?”

  “Have you forgotten? You must be groggy from the smoke. It’s the start of your big End of the World tour, remember?” Max jabbed at his own chest. Speaking slowly and loudly, he read out the words on his shirt. “El … Fin … del … Mundo? The End of the World?”

  Vince stared at the shirt. “I wondered wot that meant,” he said.

  “Seriously? You’ve never heard of it?”

  “It’s news to me, man. Sounds like you’ve been ’ad.”

  He’d been had.

  That figured.

  Not for the first time that night, Max asked himself what he’d been thinking to trust Ah Pukuh. How was it possible that, after all he’d been through in San Xavier, he was ready to drop his guard and hand over the Yellow Jaguar in exchange for a T-shirt, some pizza, and four fake Plague Rats tickets?

  Was he really tha
t shallow?

  Yeah, he was.

  He must be, or he wouldn’t have done it.

  “ ’Ere, are you cryin’?” asked Vince.

  “I’ve got smoke in my eyes,” lied Max.

  Next minute, Vince and Max were knocked sideways as a sweaty heap of black leather landed on top of them. It was Trigger and Ty making a reunion pig pile.

  “Wotcha!” Trigger greeted Max, rolling off and slapping him on the back.

  “ ’Ere, go easy on ’im,” protested Vince. “ ’E just saved my life. Rescued me from the blazin’ inferno, ’e did. Our Max is a regular little ’ero! An’ to fink that Ah Pukuh’s been ’avin’ a larf at ’is expense. ’E gave Max some tickets for a gig that ain’t even ’appenin’!”

  Ty giggled. “Never trust yer manager, kid—first rule of rock ’n’ roll!”

  “He lied to me about other things as well,” admitted Max.

  “ ’E’s gettin’ too big for ’is boots, that Ah Pukuh. I didn’t like ’is tone tonight. You should ’ave a word with ’im, Vince. Tell ’im wot’s wot,” said Trigger. He grabbed a bottle of water and poured it on his own head. “And next time, make sure ’e checks the fire certificate. Blimey, it was ’ot in there.”

  “Did you ’ear wot caused it?” asked Ty. “Some geezer let off a musket in the library. It’s burnt to a crisp.”

  “Great party, though,” said Vince.

  “An’ you did a good job on drums,” said Ty to Max.

  “Odd-Eye will be off ’is feet for weeks,” observed Trigger.

  The three Plague Rats exchanged meaningful glances.

  “So ’ow about it, kid?” asked Ty.

  The three Plague Rats looked at Max expectantly.

  “How about what?” he asked.

  “Wanna be our drummer?” asked Vince.

  Max couldn’t believe his ears. “Me? A Rat?”

  “Why not? We’ll fire that loser Ah Pukuh an’ get ourselves a decent manager. We’ve got some sweet gigs comin’ up: Madrid, Rome, Paris …,” wheedled Trigger.

  “Ever kissed a French girl?” asked Ty.

  “You’ll be livin’ the dream, kid,” said Vince. “So ’ow about it?”

  “It’s a great offer,” said Max.

  “Let’s get on the bus and talk about it,” said Vince.

  “Wot’s to talk about?” asked Ty as they walked across the lawn. “Every kid wants to play in a rock band.”

  “I know,” said Max glumly. “But Ah Pukuh—”

  “I told you, we’ll fire ’im. ’E’s ’istory.”

  “Wot’s yer problem, kid? You ’ad fun tonight, didn’t you? I mean before fings went crazy.…”

  “Yes, but …”

  But what? Max asked himself.

  He’d lost the Yellow Jaguar. Lord 6-Dog was dead. Lola was getting married. In the morning, he’d have two days left to live. Why not spend his last hours on earth as the drummer of his favorite band?

  He climbed aboard the tour bus.

  The Plague Rats cheered and clapped and stamped their feet.

  Max looked around longingly at all the trappings of rockstardom, the plasma screens, the fully stocked fridges, the reclining seats.

  And he heard Lola’s voice in his head, saying, “Turn around, Hoop. It’s people that matter, not things.”

  And Lola mattered more than anyone.

  He sighed. “I’m sorry, guys, but I can’t come. Not tonight.”

  Before they could stop him, he jumped off the bus.

  The Plague Rats stood in the door, calling to him.

  “I don’t get it,” said Vince.

  “This is yer big chance, kid!” shouted Ty.

  “We should’ve shut the door before ’e could escape,” said Trigger.

  “ ’E’s just messin’ with us,” pronounced Ty confidently. “No one walks away from fame and fortune and French girls.…”

  “Get back on the bus, Max Murphy,” said Vince. His tone sounded slightly threatening. “Or you’ll regret this for the rest of yer life.”

  Yeah, all two days of it, thought Max. “I’m grateful, honestly I am,” he said, “but there’s someone I have to find first. I could meet you tomorrow …?”

  “It’s now or never,” said Vince.

  “Then it’s good-bye,” said Max after only a second’s hesitation. “And thank you. I’ll never forget the night I was drummer for the Plague Rats.”

  Trigger burst out laughing, quickly followed by the other two. They were snorting and honking, the tears running down their faces.

  “You actually think—” began Trigger.

  “—that a band like the Plague Rats—” continued Ty.

  “—would be interested in a runt like you?” finished Vince, wiping his eyes.

  “But you just asked me …,” pointed out Max.

  “Massimo Francis Sylvanus Murphy,” said Trigger, “will you never learn?”

  “The Plague Rats aren’t even British,” sniggered Ty.

  “They’re from Boston, like you!” Vince was wiping away tears of laughter.

  I knew that, thought Max. I knew that.

  “We punked ’im good, lads,” cheered Vince.

  “You can drop the accent now!” Trigger pointed out.

  The three black-leather-clad punks exchanged high fives.

  And their black leather began to grow greasy brown fur.

  Their noses became more pointed, their cheeks sprouted whiskers, their teeth became longer, their hands turned into claws.

  Max met Vince’s pale pink eyes. “I saved you from the fire,” he said accusingly.

  “More fool you,” squeaked the aptly named Vince Vermin.

  As Max watched in horror, his bandmates shrank back into the disgusting, disease-ridden sewer rats they really were. Instinctively he threw his backpack at them, and they scurried away into the bushes, their long, scaly tails glinting in the moonlight.

  As for the bus, it was nothing but a pile of rusting tin cans.

  It was his own personal Cinderella story, reflected Max, with rats and cans instead of mice and a pumpkin.

  But where was his fairy godmother when he needed her?

  What would have happened to him if he’d joined the band?

  Where would that ghoulish bus have taken him?

  When the clock struck twelve, would he have found himself down in the sewers with the rest of the Rats?

  Most important of all, when would he, Max Murphy, stop falling for Ah Pukuh’s tricks?

  Now it was clear to him that the real Plague Rats were on tour in Japan, just as Nasty had said. The band Max and Nasty had seen at the airport was the same band that had just turned into rodents. No wonder they couldn’t play their instruments. Like the tour bus, and the hellhounds that had herded Max onto it, they’d been conjured up by Ah Pukuh to lull him into handing over the Yellow Jaguar.

  And he’d fallen for it.

  Now that he thought about it, there was something else—something even more unlikely than the Plague Rats inviting him to join them—that he’d allowed himself to believe recently.

  Furious at his own stupidity, Max ran back to the palace to find Lola.

  By following a human chain of servants passing along buckets of water, Max traced the source of the fire to what was left of Landa’s library.

  It was bad.

  Smoke hung heavy in the air.

  Ruined books, manuscripts, and paintings were heaped in charred and dripping piles in the center of the room. The wood paneling was scorched and peeling. Shattered glass from the windows crunched underfoot.

  As Max surveyed the sorry scene, he heard someone talking in a side room. He stepped behind a pillar and listened.

  First came Landa’s voice, shrill and whiny: “My head aches so much! What a terrible night!”

  Then Lola’s voice, calm and reassuring: “It’s okay, Toto, relax.”

  It was all Max could do not to vomit on the spot. Toto? She called him Toto?

  “I ha
ve been planning this night all my life and that idiota Ah Pukuh had to ruin it! What was he thinking? To bring them back without any warning! Humiliating me like that in front of my guests …”

  Lola tried to soothe his ego. “I’m sure no one knew it was for real. They probably all thought it was a show. They will think it was hilarious that you were pretending to be so scared.”

  “I was not scared! I was angry!”

  “If you say so, Toto.”

  Landa was still ranting. “Those stinking peasants dare to come in here, into my sanctum, touching my family heirlooms—”

  “But they are your family. Those peasants are your ancestors. They can’t help being poor.”

  “Can they help being stupid? Who but a madman would let off a firearm in a library?”

  “It was an accident, Toto. Just be happy that no one died in the fire—”

  “Happy? Happy?” Landa thumped angrily on the nearest table, and its fire-damaged timbers splintered under his fist. “For five hundred years, my family has hauled itself up the social ladder, rung by rung. We have transformed ourselves from pig farmers into nobility. And all the proof was in this room. Birth certificates, title deeds, documents, oil paintings …” He groaned, as if he’d suddenly remembered something. “My new acquisition … a diary written by Friar Diego himself. And now it’s gone, all gone.”

  “I’m sorry about your old books and things, Toto, but—”

  “Old books and things?” he thundered. “My family history has been burned to ashes—do you not understand?”

  There was a silence as charged as an electric shock and as cold as liquid nitrogen.

  Then Lola’s voice again: “It was Friar Diego who burned the history of my people to ashes.”

  “Then we are even, are we not?” snapped Landa.

  “Oh, Toto, let’s not argue on our wedding night. Tomorrow I will be a countess and you will be a Jaguar King.”

  A pause.

  Then Landa’s voice, conciliatory. “You are right. Forgive me for speaking sharply, Princess. I have such a pain in my head, I am not thinking clearly.”

  “But you will keep your promise?”

  “My word is my bond.”

  “So why was poor Santino Garcia nearly sacrificed tonight?”

  “He was snooping around. How was I to know he was a friend of yours? But no harm done.”