MUSICAroLina

by Daniel William Gunning

  John stopped in his tracks as he found himself standing in front of the body of a young woman. Her flesh was shredded and mangled and one of her arms had been torn from her body, but despite the grave severity of the wounds he still recognized her face. It was Adrienne. He turned away for a moment, unable to look upon her mangled body. It was then, as his head turned to the side, that he noticed the bundle on the wall beside her. Unable to look away, to scream, to do anything, he gazed at the face there framed in the tentacles before him. It was the face of his brother Jack.

  Instinctively, the fear fell from him in that instant and he rushed forward to pull his brother free of those foul tentacles, but his hands went right through him and he crashed hard into the cavern wall. He stepped back, confused. Not willing to accept defeat, he frantically tried to pull Jack free, despite that his hands continued passing through him like a ghost. He only succeeded in clawing his hands on the unforgiving rock wall behind, until the blood flowed freely down his hands and arms. Finally exhausted, fingernails cracked, fingers torn open, and feeling utterly lost, he sank to his knees in front of the ghastly apparition that once had been his brother, sobbing uncontrollably as he collapsed. He knew now that his brother hadn’t escaped; he had perished here in this godforsaken town. His brother had died here waiting for him to come and now even in that horrific death he was still trapped here, denied even the solace and mercy of the grave. John rose to his feet and looked his brother squarely in those white, soulless eyes. He gazed, determined, deep into that horrible, glassy stare.

  “I will get you out of here, brother, and I promise you I am going to personally make sure the hell I send them to will make this place look like a Sunday at the spa,” he said to Jack with complete and total conviction. John then turned and headed back toward the entrance to the church, knowing now what he must do. He traveled the whole way back down the tunnel without looking on anymore of the poor wretches that were trapped there, for all eternity, in this horrible underground mausoleum. He no longer needed to see anything, for he now had a purpose. He strode steadily on, leaving their pained moans and wails behind him echoing off the cavern walls.

  ***

  He didn’t stop until he was back in the cavernous entrance where he had begun his harrowing journey. The light from the church shone down upon him so, no longer requiring it, he extinguished his torch in the reddish mud. As John pushed the torch down into the mire, he noticed the reddish fluid that coated the wooden handle. He then noticed the reddish stains covering his shoes and he observed the same reddish stains from where he knelt in front of his brother’s ghost. He then outstretched his bloodied hands and he realized that it was all the same. John looked once more around that cavern of lost souls and he now realized, the scales finally falling from his eyes, that the reddish liquid that covered that entire tunnel system, staining the mud crimson red, was blood. He took hold of the rope with those blood-soaked hands and the preacher and Kurt hauled him back up into the safety of the church.

  ***

  John was back in the comparable luxury of the humble, little church, sprawled out on the floor, but he remained like that for only a moment before he scrambled to his feet and punched the preacher square in the jaw with all his might. The preacher crumpled to the floor. Kurt quickly rushed forward to grab John’s arms and restrained him from further assaulting the priest.

  “Why didn’t you tell me!?” John demanded.

  “You needed to know that I was telling you the truth and you needed to know exactly what’s at stake here. You see, the mayor will never let anyone leave his domain; not even in death. You can never, ever get out of this town. I told you before, anyone who comes to this town is his property forever whether they give their soul to him or not; they are already lost the moment they arrive and if you die here, he will still feed on your soul for all eternity! Nice right hook though.”

  “So, that’s just it for us, then? That’s what you wanted me to know—that we’re stuck here for all time? We’re just doomed to sing silly songs and eventually have our ghost feed a demon and there’s simply nothing we can do about it?”

  “I wouldn’t say there’s nothing we can do about it; there is still one thing that we can try. That’s why I needed you to see the ugly truth and understand it; I need you to truly understand what is at stake here and what, then, we must do.”

  “And what exactly is that, padre?”

  “We are going to have to kill the mayor.”

  “Whoa, whoa! Is that even possible?” Kurt asked, releasing John.

  “Well, I have had a few centuries to think about it and I believe that I have an idea, if you’re interested,” the preacher said with a devilish smile.

  “Oh believe me; we’re interested. I’d like to be the one to personally send this show tune-singin’, second-rate Satan straight back to hell.” John growled.

  “Wait; aren’t we in hell already?” Kurt asked.

  “Oh, this isn’t hell; I’d like to think that hell is much nicer than this,” the preacher answered.

  “All right then, what do we do?” John and Kurt asked simultaneously.

  CHAPTER 15

  A HERO’S SONG

  The three unlikely conspirators spent the next several hours there in the church, embroiled deep in conversation as their planning and scheming lasted long into the night. They listened to the preacher as he carefully laid out his plans and then they presented ideas of their own. After long hours of seemingly endless debates and arguments, they finally settled on the plan that they thought had the best chance to succeed. Which was still a slim chance at best, however, they were resolved that they could do no better. Only then did John and Kurt each pick out a pew and tried to get some much-needed sleep. They knew that it would be desperately required for what was to come. Truth be told, neither one of them particularly wanted to go to sleep, for they didn’t know if this night’s slumber was to be their very last among the living. It seemed not to matter at first, as sleep wouldn’t come to them easily after the day they had just endured, but finally the weight of pure exhaustion took its wearying toll and they drifted off to sleep.

  ***

  The preacher watched over them for a while as they slumbered peacefully on the pews. He sat, serenely by his pulpit, his Bible in his lap, watching over them as carefully as a caring father watches over his young children at night. His heart was filled with joy to once again have a flock to watch over, safe and sound under the roof of his humble sanctuary, even if it was only two souls. Once he was sufficiently sure they were fast asleep, he returned to the chest that sat in the corner from which he had earlier produced the torch and rope. He opened the lid and this time lifted out an ancient-looking wooden guitar. He tenderly wiped away a layer of dust that had formed on it and then he returned, once again, to the pulpit and sat down contemplatively. He held the guitar in his lap and the moonlight fell down upon him as he began to strum the guitar. He didn’t look at John and Kurt anymore. Instead he closed his eyes and felt the music flow through him, and for the first time in several centuries he began to sing.

  This, my child, is the tale of a man who drifted along.

  A wanderer who had nothing but a gun and a song.

  This drifter, he traveled; moving from place to place.

  He was lost, but brave, courageous, and terribly strong.

  So he walked for endless days; the sun always in his face.

  Still he traveled ever onwards at a steady, relentless pace.

  He moved ever onwards as the days slowly became years.

  For he was running from things he simply could not erase.

  This man no longer had a purpose; he had no hopes, no fears.

  So he rolled like the tumbleweed through the wild frontiers.

  Just one pointless step after another; driven endlessly on.

  But it was not to last; he’d soon find fate always interferes.

  So came that fateful day, he arrived in that hellish Babylon.

  H
e strode into town, bold as brass, at the breaking of dawn.

  He found this was a place where hope had fled long ago.

  ‘Twas devoid of love or compassion, ruled only by brawn.

  He found himself once again in a place full of sadness and woe.

  And there again he saw a darkness; an evil most will never know.

  This town, it was run by men with their hearts the deepest black.

  And it was here he once again met with this horror, his lifelong foe.

  He observed the innocent slaughtered like sheep by the wolf pack.

  It was a town that was on its knees, at the mercy of a cruel maniac.

  And he witnessed the sad cruelty, the violence that is done by men.

  And he knew now he could not turn away, he knew he must attack.

  He knew it was up to him to burn down this wicked wolves’ den.

  So he used his trusty gun to bring them to justice for all their sin.

  There he freed the innocent captives and he bravely slew the vile.

  And for the first time the people could finally feel hope grow within.

  Alone he held that evil, that darkness at bay if for only just a while.

  And when his doom came for him at last, he met it gladly with a smile.

  He stood there bold and unafraid as he was pierced by the sword.

  But for once in all his tortured life, he knew his pain was worthwhile.

  For he had given up his life, laid it down freely of his own accord

  And because of his noble sacrifice, he found that his spirit soared.

  His long journey was now at its end and no longer would he roam.

  That very night he was honored and he dined at the table of his Lord.

  For though this bloody ground was his grave, it was never his home.

  His name was now immortal; it was written on that most heavenly tome.

  And though he had found his death alone in the icy cold of the night

  For his sacrifice, the evil would crumble and fall like ancient Rome.

  At his fall, the righteous stood up and they carried on with his fight.

  For the first time, it was evil that cowered and trembled with fright.

  All that was wrong was crushed by the fury of the emboldened throng.

  The town expelled the darkness and reveled in the glorious daylight.

  And though their fallen hero was in their lives for a time not so long

  They knew in the depths of their hearts this is where he truly did belong.

  So the children sing of him still and they pray that he truly finds grace.

  And so ends this wondrous tale, of life and of death, the hero’s song.

  John was still lying there fast asleep, utterly dead to the world, but Kurt had never been able to fully drift off and the preacher’s singing awakened him from his shallow slumber. He rolled over on the pew and propped himself up on one arm to face the preacher and asked, “So are you one of them then, preacher? Because if you are, I think it is only fair to warn you that I’m gonna have to beat you to death with your own guitar. You know that, right? Rest assured though, I will be mighty conflicted about it as that looks like a very nice guitar, antique even. It’ll be a crying shame to have to ruin it with your spongy brain matter.”

  The preacher laughed and responded, “No I’m not one of them, my son, which is a good thing because I would hate to force you to ruin a classic guitar like this; it’s practically irreplaceable. Nice chap brought it with him about a century ago and taught me to play. It may be the only thing about modern music I like.”

  “Well if you’re not one of them, then what’s up with the midnight serenade?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing my son; it’s just an old song my father used to sing to me when I was a young lad. It somehow just seemed appropriate now.”

  “Yeah, well I thought you said you didn’t like singing.”

  “Well, not now after seeing it twisted on a daily basis out there as it is, but I’ll tell you a secret. I once loved singing more than anything in the world. I wish you could have seen this humble house of God back then. It feels so long ago now when the voices of my parishioners would rise up, filling the room and reverberating throughout these hallowed walls. I’d stand there behind my pulpit, close my eyes as tightly as I could, and I’d hear, really hear; I’d truly feel the music as it carried through the air and filled my soul with just the purest joy. It was in those sacred moments that I believe that I truly felt the spirit of the Divine. Now however, all the music that I hear out there in the world is hollow and meaningless. Regrettably, after so many years of listening to that soulless wailing, I came to hate that which I once loved so deeply.”

  “Yeah. Well, if it makes you feel any better, preach, you should hear the junk they play on the radio these days. Honestly it’s not that much better. Same thing probably would’ve happened to you out there in the real world; talk about your soulless wailing.”

  “Well, at least it’s not being sung by some poor soul who is having their every thought and action controlled by a demon.”

  “You know, now that you bring it up, knowing record companies, I’m not entirely sure that’s true. I know you don’t get out much and all, but you should see the tragic state of the music industry these days. We have these things called boy bands and pop stars now; if they’re not the product of some crazed hell spawn, then I don’t know what is. Everything that’s popular now is bland, repetitive and uninspired; the mere product of people in a studio sterilely building something safe that appeals to the widest possible audience. The end result is that it’s no longer art, it’s a product; it’s something that sounds like everything else and the people simply eat it up because they are told to.

  They are told what’s good, what they should like, what’s popular and they just go along with it. They never find anything original or beautiful for themselves; they’re always afraid to be different, to be better. They rob themselves of finding the greatest, simplest pleasures in life because it’s simply easier to follow the crowd. They just sing along with the masses, little better than this horrific hamlet, really. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like true emotion or artistry even exists anymore,” Kurt said mournfully, yawning as he did.

  “‘Tis a far better fate than to have to listen to country music.”

  “Indeed it is, preacher, indeed it is,” Kurt replied. He then lay back down, feeling finally at ease, peaceful even, and he drifted off to sleep. The preacher smiled and carefully returned the guitar back to its resting place in the chest. Then he too lay down and got some much needed rest.

  CHAPTER 16

  CRACKING THE VAULT

  John sat by himself out in the hallway by the door to the conference room, resting his back against the wall. In his hand he held the pistol he had taken from the bank guard earlier in the day. He turned it over and over in his hands, like he was carefully studying it, judging its purpose. He breathed deeply and composed himself, as if he was preparing to do something bold and drastic. Finally he said under his breath, “Well, here we go.” He then climbed back to his feet and reentered the room. He didn’t waste any time glancing over at the hostages or even his friends as he walked in; he simply strode in a straight line directly up to the bank manager, without pause or hesitation, gun in hand.

  Mr. Myers was still secured to the chair where he’d left him earlier. His face was now streaked with tears, his eyes were blood red from all the sobbing and his shirt was drenched with nervous sweat. All in all, he was a rather pathetic, miserable sight to behold. That gave John a deep sense of satisfaction. John sat down squarely on the conference table directly across from the pitiful bank manager and from his elevated perch there, he looked down at him with a deeply furrowed and judgmental glare.

  John then said in a low, but determined voice, “I want you to really focus here on this moment, the significance of it. Do you see all of these frightened people gathered here?” He gestured toward the other hostages
still huddled together in the corner and continued, “Look at them. I want you to really take a second. I want you to see past your own shallow and petty self and all your worries and concerns for just this one fraction of a moment in your miserable life, and truly look at them. I want you to know, to really know and understand, that this is all your doing. Here they all find themselves, afraid, trembling, bawling and every last one of them is scared practically to death and all for what? For you? All these terrified people want right now is simple, so very simple. They just want to go home, that’s all, that’s it, that’s everything, the entire world to them in this instant, home. Then, way on the far, far other end of the spectrum, there are my close personal friends, the police, out there,” John said, motioning toward the window. The red and blue lights of the various emergency vehicles stationed outside danced off the shutters, reminding them of the imminent danger of the armed presence lurking just beyond the window.

  “Here they all are, frantic, as the eyes of the world are upon them, scrutinizing and judging every moment, every movement that is taking place here today. They all know that their jobs could all very well be on the line out there and they don’t even care about that for one measly second. They’d gladly and nobly give up their jobs and even their very lives for this one simple thing. Everyone out there only wants that one thing and it’s the same thing, Mr. Myers. Why, people we don’t even perceive right now, in their homes, watching with their eyes glued to their TV, seeing this great and terrible tragedy play out on our humble stage, are each saying a little prayer to whatever deity they hold dearest and all just to ask for these people to get out of here safe and sound, to go home. Well, except for the sociopaths, of course. Heaven knows what outcome they are rooting for, but they don’t really matter, for the point I’m trying to make.