“Mine!” Over the edge and barely coherent, the thought that Sunny and Wex’s deaths would free him from the deal snuck through his rage. He grinned manically.
He was just about to jump on Wex a dozen more times and end it when a voice cried out.
“What have you done?”
Seth snapped his head around to see Michael standing at the end of the hall, the guitarist staring at him through comically wide eyes. His hand covered his mouth, face pale. He looked ready to topple over, the barest of breezes threatening to upset his balance. His eyes darted from Sunny to Wex to Seth and back around again. Seth growled, realizing he wasn’t free just yet. He would be soon, however. He would be.
Just as soon as Michael died.
Blood dripping from his aching fists, Seth howled and started forward.
35
Sanity’s End
Michael
Michael stumbled against the wall, mind roaring with anger and fear, at what he had just seen. Seth standing over Wex’s broken body. Covered in blood.
“What have you done!” Michael yelled.
“What I had to to get out of this shitty deal. Just one more piece to the puzzle, old friend. Then I’m free. Fucking free!” Seth snarled as he advanced on Michael.
Michael’s head spun. The Jack had hit him harder than it had in years thanks to his sobriety. Barely half of the bottle gone and he was seeing two Seths. Two Seths who wanted to kill him.
Michael hit the exit and ran for the cabin. He stumbled on the gravel path and went down on one knee, his hand sliding forward to catch him before he hit the ground. The gravel bit into his kneecap and sent pain soaring up his leg.
He recovered and made it to the door just as Seth closed on him.
Michael slammed the door open and made it as far as the main room, then Seth was on him. The two went down in a pile of flailing arms and legs.
Seth swung his fist but Michael managed to get an arm up and deflect the blow. He kicked Seth away and scrambled backward across the hard wood floor, feet thrashing against the ground as he sought to escape his enraged bandmate.
“Get off me!” Michael yelled.
“Not until you’re fucking dead,” Seth spat.
Seth got his hands under him and tried to heave himself to his feet. Michael lashed his foot out and caught Seth’s forearm, sending the man down again.
Something cut into Michael’s hand. He turned and found a shard of the busted ass-tray. Michael snatched it up and staggered to his feet, stumbling backward until his back hit the front door.
“Just die, man. It’s easier that way. Then I can go back and finish Wex. When you both get to Hell, ask him why he had to kill Sunny,” Seth said as he wiped his hand across his mouth, smearing blood across his lips and chin.
“Seth! You’re out of your fucking mind. Just stop this. We can talk,” Michael said, trying to reason with the bass player.
Seth launched himself toward Michael, wanting nothing to do with reason.
Michael slammed the glass shard into Seth’s probing hand, slitting skin and leaving a furrow. Seth recoiled and screamed in pain. He shook his hand, sending blood flying. It splattered across Michael’s face, the door, and the wall.
Michael got his hand on the doorknob and turned it. He remembered the axe over the doorway but it was too late. He was already out in the night air with Seth close on his heels.
Michael made it three staggering steps before Seth tackled him. They sprawled across the driveway.
“Seth! You can’t get out of the deal like this,” Michael tried again.
“Watch me. Oh that’s right, you won’t be able to because you’ll be dead.”
Seth pounced onto Michael’s chest and went for his throat.
Michael slammed the piece of grass into Seth’s face and ripped it across his cheek. Seth flailed backward, screaming. Michael got his leg between them and kicked Seth in the chest.
“Stop this.” Michael tried again but he was just about out of energy.
“You fuck!” Seth howled.
Michael got to his feet, head still reeling, cursing himself for touching that bottle of booze. What the hell had he been thinking?
He staggered into rental car and used the hood to find his balance. His heart hammered in his chest like it was going to explode.
Seth sprawled on the ground with blood dripping from the ragged slice on his face. He rolled to the side, got his hands under his body, and pushed himself to his feet.
Michael made for the low line of woods with no clear plan in mind. If he could just escape Seth, maybe circle back around, and then get in the car. But his keys were in his room and the door was locked. Michael almost laughed at the horror movie clichés as they piled up around him. He had his cell phone in his pocket but Seth had that stupid fucking blocker online and there was no way to make a call.
He made it to a trail before Seth was on him again.
This time, Michael rolled with Seth as his arm’s wrapped around his body, but he still ended up on the bottom after Seth strong-armed him over. He slashed the glass again but Seth darted his head back. Then the bass player’s fist crashed into Michael’s face and he saw stars.
The blow was quickly followed up by another. Michael nearly blacked out but thought of his wife. What would she do when he was gone? Giselle, lying in a pool of her own blood. Suddenly it made sense to him. The dream where he’s slashed her neck. Killed her in their own house. If he died now, there was no one to prevent Seth from going to Michael’s house and finishing her. And he would. He’d have to kill everyone if he hoped to escape the deal.
He lifted his hand to ward off another blow but Seth didn’t go for one, instead he wrapped his hands around Michael’s neck and squeezed.
Blood ran from the wound on Seth’s arm, spilling warm across Michael’s lips. He sputtered and realized he couldn’t breath.
Michael tried to fight back, tried to force his arms to lift, but the blows to his face had left him reeling. His stomach rebelled and he tried to power puke up all of the Jack he had drank an hour ago. Not finding a windpipe, it exploded from his nose. He snatched a quick breath as Seth recoiled. The respite didn’t last long.
Seth’s hands went around his neck again. He lifted Michael’s head and slammed it onto the ground and pushed his thumbs around Michael’s jugular, squeezing like a vice.
As the light faded from sight, Michael thought of Giselle. Thought of her lovely face and the fact that she was probably going to die very soon. But there was no last minute surge of energy, no way to fight back. Seth was literally choking the life out of him.
Then something that sounded like a coconut being struck with a large knife sounded. Something wet drooled across Michael’s face. He was suddenly able to breath. He gasped in a breath, then turned his head to the side and gagged up the rest of the stomach acid that had been stuck in his throat.
Seth had a surprised look on his face.
It was probably due to the hand-axe sticking out of his head.
Michael closed his eyes and prayed to the great one that the nightmare was over.
It wasn’t.
Blood poured from Seth’s shattered skull and covered Michael. The bass player spasmed, and then shit himself before slumping to the side, most of his body still covering Michael. Michael was sure that he himself was dead and this was Hell.
“Had to do it. Had to take him out. Fucker hurt me bad, Michael, you know. Broke my wrist. How in the hell am I going to play guitar without my hand?”
“Wex?” Michael coughed.
Wex’s voice sounded like he was sucking on marbles. Even in the pale moon light, it was easy to make out all of the damage to Wex’s face. A flap of skin hung from his left cheek. His jaw was swollen and both lips split. One eye was closed and blood streamed from multiple lacerations. He looked like a jack-o’-lantern from hell
He struggled to push Seth’s corpse off.
“Yep. In the flesh,” Wex said, then leaned over
and yanked the axe out of the bass player’s head with a sickening, squishing noise.
Bone grated on steel and that was enough to make Michael gag again. His nose burned from the whiskey. His face was covered in blood, and the reek of feces permeated the area.
The moon came into view, nearly full above the canopy of trees, and grinning at him. Michael grinned back and burst into hysterical laughter.
“You think it’s funny? Fuck you, Michael,” Wex said between gritted teeth.
“Help me,” Michael said.
“I plan to. Just stay there and I’ll help you to the next life. Hail Satan and shit,” Wex said.
“Wait!”
“What, man? Don’t draw this out,” Wex said.
“Why?” Was all Michael could think to ask, having only just survived Seth to have Wex threaten him.
“Why? Because fuck this. That’s why. Sick of you ungrateful assholes. The band was always me, not you. Not Seth, and sure as fuck not Sunny. I started this thing and I’m going to end it.”
Wex lifted the axe, and then lowered the sharp blood drenched end right over Michael’s nose, teasing him with the edge.
“No,” Michael begged.
Wex lifted the axe, then he froze. Footsteps, barely perceptible in the woods. The trees had been silent with Seth’s death but the crickets, bugs, and whatever else lived out here had started to hum again.
Wex choked and turned his head, then he dropped to his knees.
“Who…?” Wex said.
He collapsed and rolled to his side so he could look Michael in the eye.
“Wex?”
“It’s hot there. I can feel the flames. It’s so…” then he screamed, a soul shattering sound that terrified Michael. Wex’s eyes rolled back in his head and froze, but not before they turned an incandescent yellow, like a candle out of control.
A tall form stepped over Wex and dropped to a crouch.
“Hello, Michael,” Nils said with a smile. “Pleasure to see you again.”
In one hand was a huge knife, and it was covered in Wex’s blood.
Crown of Sympathy
Epilogue
Los Angeles News Tribune - October 30th
The trial of the decade concluded today with a verdict of not guilty for Michael Blackstone, lone survivor of the band Damaged. The story has captivated the nation as one of the biggest bands in the world were brought into the spotlight following a three-year hiatus.
Damaged were a heavy metal group from the bay area who met a fiery end six months ago while recording a new album. The lone survivor, Mr. Blackstone, told a tale of drugs, sexual deviancy, and jealousy. The former lead singer, Patrick Wexling, aka Wex, killed the three other band members as well as the band’s manager Maximillian August. The body of his girlfriend, Payton Anderson, was also found in his house. Record producer Roy Slater is believed to have perished in the fire, however, his body was not recovered.
During the investigation, the blood of the other band members was found on Blackstone’s clothing. Michael was arrested on June 15th but was released a week later.
Questions still swirl around the band’s demise due to the presence of Nils Christof, also known in Norway as Lord Bolvrkr. His own band, Serpent Christ, met a similar end and he was tried for murder but found not guilty…
Michael had downgraded much of his life since the incident, and it had resulted in him driving an older BMW 328i. The car wasn’t anything like his old sports cars or the Cadillac Cielo he had loved. Most of those were gone, swept up in the trial that had seemingly gone on forever. But the car was solid German engineering. He had purchased it after Tools for the Devil went platinum but rarely driven it.
Giselle was also gone. After Michael had been arrested, she had gone through the house and found some of his goodies from past rituals. She had taken her stuff, most of his fortune, which was wrapped up in her name, and moved back to Sweden. The divorce had been swift, and he had been unable to muster up the energy to fight back.
But she was alive and that was the important part. If she had remained with him, there was a good chance that she would end up dead.
He woke up every night in cold sweats, the nightmare he had lived back at the cabin always fresh in his mind. It usually ended with Wex screaming in agony as his soul was pulled straight to Hell.
Michael had not gotten sober again, preferring to wallow in misery and empty whiskey bottles.
But that was all about to change, or so his new manager claimed.
Her name was Tracey Faust. A fast talking mover and shaker who had gotten busy putting a new band together in the wake of Damaged’s demise, had called and told him where to be at noon. He didn’t have much say in it. The Devil still owned his soul, as did the record label.
They were keen to get him back in the studio under the moniker of Blackstone. They had even gone so far as to put together a group of session musicians and orders to get an album out as soon as possible. If he didn’t, the trickle of money they still provided would dry up.
“Tracey, I can’t work with a bunch of unknowns. It takes more than just a few people to make a band.”
“Sure, Michael. Just go to the studio and check them out. I think you’ll find them to be an excellent fit. And hey, if it doesn’t work out, you can always audition other members.”
Audition other members? She had no idea how any of this worked.
Damaged’s money was all wrapped up in legal proceedings as family members of victims of Wex, and the massacre at the studio, poured in. By the time it was all over, he would be lucky if he had a pot to piss in. Damaged’s record sales had soared, of course, but he might never see a penny.
So he was doing the label’s bidding and he wasn’t happy about it.
Michael unloaded one of his older Les Paul’s, slung the guitar case onto the ground, and pulled a thirty-pound Orange amp out. A bag containing pedals and cables joined the kit. He took out a manila envelope and added it to his collection.
He dug out a bottle of Jack and glanced around. Cars sped past on Server Street but no one seemed to be paying attention to Michael. He spun the cap off and took a deep drink, and hissed after the fire stopped burning. So he hit the bottle again. Then he placed it among his guitar supplies, large envelope, and a Walmart bag that was nearly bursting. He slung the heavy bag over his shoulder.
Michael struggled to maneuver all of the gear in one trip but managed to make it to the entry way. Then he stood there, out of breath, as he worked at the door’s code, four digits Tracey had provided. A zero and three sixes. Well, wasn’t that ironic.
“Fuck my life,” Michael muttered as he took the rickety stairs to a practice room. The building was old and the hallways smelled like sweat and mildew. The walls were dark and as he passed doors, the sound of music carried through them. Everything from jazz to metal. Someone screeched on the other side of a door marked with a pentagram and Michael quickened his pace.
He took out the slip of paper and read his own hand writing. Room 3.
He found it around a corner and at the end of another long hallway. There were no markings besides the number on the door, nothing else to distinguish it from half of the other rooms.
Michael knocked three times and opened the door.
A man he recognized looked up and shot Michael a grin.
“Hey, man. Glad you made it.”
Vince Cazerro was a bassist from the bay area who had come up in the 80s but had, like so many others back then, seen his heyday come and go. His band had made it big with one album, and then the other members had succumbed to drugs and alcohol and a follow up never materialized. What was their name? Michael racked his brain but couldn’t remember. The only thing Michael could come up with was that something had happened to the band’s other members. Car crash? Or was it a bus?
Michael knew him mainly by reputation. He was a hard worker and more than adequate on the four-string.
“Good to see you, man. How long has it been?” Michael ask
ed.
“About fifteen years. Ran into you at the Grammy’s when Damaged lost, unfairly, to that shit band from Indiana,” Vince said.
“Oh yeah. Damn, man. It has been a while. Glad we’ll be working together.”
Vince nodded and turned his attention back to tuning his bass, but not before Michael caught a quick but sly smile. “Yeah, brother. I’m sure we’re going to get some good stuff down. Thanks for even considering me for the band.”
“Of course,” Michael said.
What he didn’t say was that he had no hand in picking the new band. In fact, he hadn’t even bothered listening to the voicemails, preferring to wallow in pity and booze until today. Fuck it. He would make music with whoever they picked. He’d worked for over thirty years with the most fucked up musicians in the world. He could make this work.
A long haired man entered the little studio and nodded at Vince. He stuck out his hand and Michael shook it. The kid couldn’t have been more than twenty-five but he had the look. Hair to mid back, tattoos on both arms. Strong, too. He obviously lifted weights.
“You look familiar,” Michael said trying to place the kid.
“Name’s Zeeke,” he said. “Damn, dude. I’m honored as fuck to meet you. To work with you. I’m such a fan.”
“Oh shit, man. I know about you. I mean about your band. Fucking sad story,” Michael said. “Thanks for the kind words, brother.”
The Brotherhood of the Snake had been an up and comer. Their first album had gone platinum three months after release. Michael had played the record more than a few times and found it to be amazing. They had somehow captured the old New Wave of British Heavy Metal sound but had updated it and added thrash elements. There was something about their music, hooks, and riffs that had stuck with him for days.
Then tragedy had struck when four members of the band had died in a plane crash in England almost a year ago, leaving Zeeke as the sole survivor.
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