Damaged

by Timothy W. Long

  Before he could lose his nerve, he pulled the buck knife out of its sheath and went to work, carving a new piece of parchment. She’d be his greatest message yet.

  26

  Songs from the North

  Michael

  Michael had a little trouble getting a charter plane. He called his travel agent but she was out of town. The fucking irony. Then he called his publicist. Marnie got online and told him that she could get him out to Redding tomorrow morning. Then he got on the phone and started calling airlines directly. He tried to pull the douchey rock star persona but that got him nowhere. Finally, he was directed to a private air service and was able to charter a ride in the next hour.

  The best part was that, it being a private airplane, he didn’t have to go through TSA or deal with the lines at the airport. Besides, if he did go into the terminal, he’d more than likely be tempted to stop at the bar and have a drink, breaking his sobriety. Once that first one was down, there was no telling when he’d stop drinking.

  The airplane bill was so outrageous that Michael was sure he could have put a down payment on a plane for the same amount. But the flight was smooth and the pilot, whose name was Nate Burleigh, had a thick black beard but his head was shaved bald. He wore dark aviator glasses and a cross around his neck. Nate didn’t bother him much but did cast dark glances his way more than once.

  The little plane had a small cabin that could seat four. It was so loud that Michael had to wear earphones for the short trip.

  “Seeing family?”

  “No. Work stuff,” Michael said.

  The pilot was silent for a few minutes.

  “I know who you are,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “I know what you represent. I don’t want to judge but you know that Jesus can help you, right?”

  This was what Michael had feared since he met the Nate. He’d seen the gold cross about the guy’s neck.

  “I’m sure he could,” Michael said, hoping the pilot would drop it.

  “I’ll pray with you if you want,” Nate said a few minutes later.

  “There aren’t enough prayers in the world that can help me,” Michael said. “If you don’t mind. I need to take a nap.”

  “Sure. Whatever, man.”

  Michael closed his eyes for the remainder of the flight, hoping the pilot would stay quiet. He did.

  They landed in Redding without incident and, from there, Michael was able to rent a car. He wasn’t able to get a luxury vehicle but settled on a Challenger with a beefy engine. An hour later and he was nearly at the studio.

  In 1997, they had purchased a large cabin in the woods. The original location was up a winding and unpaved road that stretched for two miles. Over the years, they had paid a company to keep it clear. There was a gate at the bottom of the hill that had huge warning signs, but anyone could jump over that thing if they desired. Over the last decade, Wex’s paranoia had kicked in and he’d had cameras installed so they could keep an eye on the location remotely.

  The studio had started small. Just the little room with the fireplace. Seth had painted a pentagram on the east facing wall with the blood of a castrated goat. A sacrifice they’d performed the second year in the cabin.

  Over the next few years, they had expanded the location. Built up the secondary building and brought in millions of dollars’ worth of recording equipment, soundproofing, windowed off rooms for guitar and vocals. For their second full length record, the producer, a man named Edgar Stein, had stayed with them for a few weeks but he had become creeped out and quit. So they had produced the album themselves. From then on, they had always met here, recorded, and produced their own work. It was easier that way.

  The main room looked like something out of a commercial for hunting lodges. There was a stuffed elk head on one wall, something they had purchased on eBay. The classic Damaged logo hung on another wall surrounded by profanities carved by the band members.

  A couple of guitars sat in another corner as well as a bass. There were half a dozen little amps, and Sunny even had a small practice kit that took a few minutes to setup.

  Over the doorway hung a hand axe that had been sent to them by a fan from Argentina. The handle was carved with intricate pentagrams and runes from Damaged’s album covers. The fan had even gone so far as to cover the haft with bright red paint to simulate blood.

  Here they were again, about to record. Michael couldn’t wait to get it over with. He was sick of Wex and it had only been one day. Plus, he was still trying to process the death of Bruno. Not only that, but the way his old friend had been killed. There were no leads on the case, but the answer had come to him on his way up to the cabin.

  Word had come down that the studio was sending in Roy Slater, a man known for his ferocious work schedule that included staying up for days at a time. He was also responsible for more than one band’s come back album.

  Damaged didn’t need a come back album. Their stuff would sell. A new album would go platinum the first week, guaranteed. Unless they killed each other first.

  “Like Nils,” Michael muttered to himself. “Fucker killed Bruno.”

  Michael wandered around the cabin turning on lights and testing the appliances to keep his mind occupied. He moved past the room they used for rituals. The door had a wood overlay but was made entirely of metal. The three locks were digital, combination, and keyed. Michael had no reason to open the door so it remained closed.

  The kitchen was Spartan but functional. There was a gas powered stove, a refrigerator that was barely large enough to hold a few cases of PBR, some food, and a few cabinets and drawers for plates and utensils. He opened the freezer and found some high calorie packaged meals.

  He dug out some canned food and warmed up some SPAM. Not exactly on the paleo diet but it filled him up. A few days before one of Wex’s personal assistance must have stocked up the place. Michael found fresh potatoes and tossed one in the microwave, then ate it with some butter that had been in the fridge for about a year. But there was a fresh bag of shredded cheese that covered up the taste.

  Michael tried to call his wife but the coverage up here was spotty at best so he dug his laptop out and connected to the LAN line. That’s when he found out, the hard way, that the internet was down.

  “That’s just fucking great,” he said out loud.

  The band would be here soon so he decided to lay down and take a cat nap.

  He had barely closed his eyes when the image of Giselle flashed through his mind. It was just like the dream he had the other night, only this time, instead of killing her with a knife, he had beaten her to a pulp the way Wex had killed Payton. He sat up in bed, a scream bubbling past his lips.

  Something moved in the corner of the room. Michael shot off the couch and dropped into a defensive crouch. The shape formed again and then faded.

  Shivers racked his body.

  The shape moved again. Something scratched the wall.

  Michael looked around for a weapon. He snatched up the heavy glass ash tray that Wex loved. Ass-tray, actually. It was shaped like a woman’s spread legs and was anatomically correct.

  The shape disappeared from view.

  Michael moved toward the corner of the room but kept the the ass-tray over his head, ready to strike.

  Something dashed past his feet and Michael let out a little squeal.

  The raccoon paused in the center of the room and looked Michael up and down. It got up on it’s back feet and motioned toward him. Begging, the little fucker was begging.

  “How in the hell did you get in here?” Michael asked.

  The raccoon cocked its head to the side like it understood him. Then his lips drew back until all Michael saw were teeth. It hissed and growled like a dog before darting at Michael. As he jumped out of the way it lashed out and caught his leg. Nails bit into his flesh and cut a furrow.

  “Little fucker!” Michael howled and threw the ass-tray.

  He missed and glass exploded.

>   The raccoon peeked out at him again. Its eyes were dark but they grew lighter while he stared. Soon they were blazing yellow and growing larger by the second.

  Michael backed away until his legs hit the back of the coffee table. He nearly fell over but managed to sit down hard, teeth clicking together.

  When he looked for the raccoon again, it was gone and, even though he spent the next fifteen minutes poking around the room with a knife, he was unable to find the critter.

  “I got something for you, you little bastard,” Michael promised.

  He picked up one of his guitars, plugged it into a 10” Orange amp, and cranked it up. For the next hour, he ran through his warm up routine, then he deviated to a couple of Damaged classics, and finally settled on some songs he’d come up with for the new album.

  The little bastard didn’t reappear, driven off by the noise, so Michael leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes for a few minutes.

  27

  Scavenger of Human Sorrow

  Maximillian

  “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.” Max stared out the window as a sea of deep green trees swept past, highlighted in the headlights for just a moment before fading into the gloom.

  “Because you know I’m right…about everything,” Nils answered, both hands on the wheel as he maneuvered the rental car along the narrow, water-rutted trail that was supposed to be a road. The crunch of dirt beneath the tires was almost deafening in its consistency and there was nothing to do to silence it as Nils insisted on speeding the entire way.

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “Nils shook his head. “What about those kids that showed up on the news tonight?” he asked. “You think they just up and killed themselves on a whim? Went crazy and carved Damaged’s song lyrics into their flesh and pulled their testicles apart like that on their own? I’m in a black metal band and even we don’t do that shit. Yeah, maybe a church burning now and again, but who the hell slaughters themselves like that for a fucking band?”

  A chill juddered through Max’s body at the thought. The news had censored the images, of course, but they’d liberally described the scene, attaching each and every instant of it to the band as if it were paid advertising. And yet, no blame was cast by the reporters and no police had showed up at his door looking for Damaged. Just like the rest of the band’s antics over the years, the blame was landing elsewhere. Max sighed. He’d used to think that was a miracle. Now he knew exactly what it was.

  “You still think it was a coincidence?” Nils asked, manhandling the car around another tight curve.

  Max clutched to his stomach and said nothing. If it was a coincidence, it was the same kind that people ascribed to Hillary Clinton and the people who tried to screw her over. The two dead teens were the same ones who’d recently released photographs of what was supposed to be some Satanic ritual performed by the band backstage at one of their last concerts.

  Not that anyone believed the kids, the images blurred by low light and an unsteady hand, on top of being taken on a shitty, old school flip phone. You could barely tell there was anything there, let alone what it was. Still, Damaged’s fan base ate it up and made the muddy pics go viral, creating all sorts of speculation about the band. Then, all of a sudden, those same kids are brutally murdered?

  “I see you’re thinking about it.”

  “Of course I’m thinking about it. Jesus!” Max wiped the sweat from his brow and cracked the window, the wind howling through. “I wouldn’t be here with you if I wasn’t thinking about it. I just don’t know what the hell we’re supposed to do if we can’t call the cops and have them arrested.”

  “I told you, that won’t hurt them. The only way to tear the band apart is for them to do it themselves, or for them to default in their deal with the Devil. Since they haven’t fucked the latter up in twenty-five plus years, we can’t realistically expect them to do it now.”

  “What if…” Max drew in a deep breath of the chill mountain air. “What if we helped, I don’t know, screw things up for them. I can convince one of the guys to go back to LA with me, tell him there’s an emergency or something, and have him miss the demonic deadline you were talking about.”

  “That’s the problem, we don’t know what their sacrifice window is. So, no, they could have already fulfilled their requirements and we’d be doing nothing but delaying the inevitable. We’ve got to do something more drastic than that.”

  Max swallowed hard at the thought. “More drastic? Like what?” The very last thing he wanted to do was involve himself in any more shady dealings. He’d already, unwittingly, helped the band become famous, and had spent a ton of the blood money he’d earned on his family and himself. Shit, he didn’t care about the ex-wives, they deserved whatever bad karma was coming their way from it, but his kids sure didn’t. For that matter, he didn’t either.

  “This trip’s all about instigating shit between the band, getting them to turn on one another, get them to rid the world of their evil.”

  “And…” Max had hesitated to ask this question before, but now that they were hurtling headlong toward the recording studio and whatever blasphemy awaited them there, he figured it was time, “what do you get out of all this?”

  “Peace,” was the Norwegian’s answer. He sat in silence for a few moments before casting a glance Max’s way and explaining himself. “My own band, Serpent Christ, made a similar deal and now everyone is dead but me.”

  “But—”

  A raised, ringed finger silenced him.

  “Dozens of animals died and way more people were hurt because of the Devil’s expectations. Rapes, acts of vicious cruelty, and even deaths, were the price he demanded for our short-lived success, and still we were nothing but an underground success, black metal icons with street cred but we were hardly in Damaged’s position. If those were the things Serpent Christ had to do just to sell a few hundred thousand albums, what kind of blood is on the hand of Damaged for them to sell hundreds of millions?”

  Max sure as shit didn’t want to think about that. He stared out the window as Nils finally slowed and eased the car over to the side of the road, still a good distance from the cabin Damaged used as their recording studio.

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s not like we can just drive up to the front door and announce ourselves…again,” Nils answered, chuckling. “That didn’t work out so well the last time around, huh?”

  “I get that,” Max said, remembering Nils confronting Michael as he stormed away from Wex’s house. “But how are we going to get to the cabin from way out here?”

  “We’re going to walk, of course.” Nils laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “You Americans. You’d never get anywhere if you didn’t have some sort of death box with a motor to crawl in or onto.” He popped the door open and stepped out into the night.

  As much as Max wanted to stay put and wait on daylight, he followed the Norwegian out, traipsing down to stand beside him near the tree line. The wind whistled through the branches, making Max wish he’d brought a jacket along. Nils stared off into the darkness, breathing in the chill air and grinning, exhaling slow.

  “Remind you of home?”

  “It does indeed.” Nils turned his smile on Max, his sharpened eyeteeth making him look vampiric in the pale moonlight leaking through the trees. Something feral shined in his eyes.

  “You said people died for Serpent Christ’s success?”

  Nils nodded. “Many, and those were the lucky ones. And many more will die if we let Damaged keep doing what they are.”

  Max shuddered. “But you know a way to end it all, right? Like what happened with your band?”

  “I do,” Nils answered, coming over and laying an arm over Max’s shoulder. The contact only intensified the shakes running through Max. Nils led him into the woods. They walked in silence for a few minutes, the sound of the humus crunching underfoot.

  “You never did tell me how you managed to escape
the deal,” Max said, the quiet sinking into his bones and breeding terror. Traipsing through a forest in the middle of the night was the last place he wanted be.

  “You’re right, I didn’t.” Nils snorted. “Do you really want to know?”

  Max offered up a weak nod, surprised the Norwegian even saw it.

  “Truth is,” Nils started, “I never broke my deal.”

  “What do you mean?” Max stopped in place while Nils moved to stand before him. “You said you got out of it.”

  Nils shook his head and waggled a ring-covered finger at Max. “No, actually what I said was that I survived it.”

  Max stiffened. “The deal then is…”

  “Still in full effect, my dear Maximillian.”

  Max’s tongue seized in his mouth, unable to spit the words out that mired it in place. It took him a moment, but at last he could ask the question burning at his throat. “You’re not here to save the band, are you?”

  “Again, never said I was, Max.” Nils grinned wider.

  “But you said you could get them out of their deal.”

  “I did,” Nils admitted. “Just like I ended the deal for the rest of my band.” Something gleamed in the Norwegian’s hand. “By killing them all and anyone who knows about the contract.”

  A blur whipped past Max and he felt and icy line drawn across his throat. Steam welled up and obscured his vision. “What are you doing? he asked, but the words came out in a bubbled hiss. He slunk to his knees as the strength left him, then toppled onto his side, staring at Nils’s boots as they were painted crimson.

  Somewhere above him, Max heard the whisper of Nils’s voice.

  “Fear not, Maximillian. Your sacrifice will not be in vain.” His bloody boots backed away a step as Max watched.

  Then there was a whoosh of air and the world spun in circles until the darkness devoured everything.