by Ken Brosky
Then, he came out. Or, rather, he stumbled out, bumping into the old cigarette machine before tripping onto the stage with his guitar clutched in one hand. The crowd cheered for a few moments and the drummer hit his snare drum a few times to keep up the energy. The fiddler stood up, staring at the crowd with lazy eyes. He was sweating … why was he sweating? He looked like he was ready to puke.
The crowd’s cheers died down a bit. Everyone looked anxious, waiting for the first song. The fiddler stood straight, staring at the crowd again with glassy eyes.
“Anytime, Briar,” I whispered.
The fiddler’s left hand found the neck of his guitar. He ran his pick over the strings.
A hideous sound escaped from the amps. No one danced. The crowd quieted further.
The fiddler’s clumsy fingers adjusted. He looked, once again, like he might barf. He strummed the strings again. I felt my heart race. Where was Briar? I unzipped my purse, clutching the pen, ready to go to Plan B …
And then the fiddler fell over.
The crowd went silent. A few people near the back shouted, asking what the heck was happening. A few swore.
“That’s alcoholism for you.”
I turned. It was the guy with the thick glasses again. He shook his head as the bassist tried to help the fiddler up. More people were shouting angrily now. One guy demanded his money back even though it was a free show.
“I’m a recovered alcoholic myself,” he said. He was a tall guy with pale skin. Probably in his thirties. Kind of a creepozoid, really. “Alcohol … it’s a drug. You can’t just drink and not expect consequences. Otherwise you end up like him. You see, alcohol is a depressant …”
“OK. Got it. Drinking is bad.” I rolled my eyes. “Sheesh!”
The lights went out. Only the red EXIT sign over the door by the bar and the red EXIT sign over the door by the stage illuminated the small space. More people began shouting, and now there was an angry surge toward the back door. The bartender hurried over, swearing and apologizing as he fumbled with the lock.
“Why was it locked in the first place?” asked someone.
“Get out!” the bartender shouted over the din of voices. “All of you ungrateful slobs, get out!”
“Uh-oh,” said the guy with glasses. “I guess the show’s over. You know, abusing alcohol really is bad …”
“Yeah, that’s really true. Thanks for telling me over and over and over,” I muttered, spinning him around and pushing him toward the door. “Please leave now before you die.”
I spun and made my way through the crowd, back to the women’s restroom. In the darkness, I fumbled my way to the last stall, opening the door and then closing it behind me. I reached down, my fingers accidentally touching the disgusting floor a few times before I found my little makeshift drawer. I pulled it open at the loose corners, reaching in and grabbing the gladius.
I stepped on the toilet seat, pressing one hand against the wall for leverage. “Please remember to wash your hands,” I whispered to myself, taking a deep breath.
Here we go.
This wasn’t exactly how I’d expected things to happen … but then again, I didn’t think the fiddler would get drunk before he enacted his diabolical scheme.
But that’s what alcoholism does to you, in the words of the creepy hipster. If only I could make a poster with the fiddler’s face on it—now that would keep Trish from abusing alcohol: “Hey, this guy almost managed to steal all the music from the entire world … but his alcoholism got in the way! You can steal all the music in the world, but you can’t abuse alcohol at the same time.”
Now it was improv time. What was it Briar always told me when we were training?
“Expect the unexpected. Anticipate.” At this point, he would always raise one paw. “Plan ahead, then plan ahead again. And always have a sword ready.”
I heard the door open, temporarily bathing the bathroom in a dim red glow. My heart skipped a beat as the door shut. It was nearly pitch-black in the bathroom, save for a little sliver of red sneaking in under the door, reflecting off the dirty tiles. I held my breath, listening to the shuffling of feet on the floor.
“Hello?” came the bartender’s voice. “Anyone in here? We’re closed now.”
I heard his feet shuffle closer. The door of the first stall slammed open. The feet shuffled closer. The door to the second stall slammed open. I took another deep breath, ordering my eyes to adjust faster to the darkness.
Listen, Alice. Take in the details.
OK. The door was going to open inward. The bartender was obviously being careless—otherwise, he wouldn’t be pushing them open with such force. If I timed it right, I could jump out before he even realized what happened.
The feet shuffled in front of the door to my stall. I clutched my gladius. It was a short sword, the kind the ancient Romans preferred because it was easy to wield. The blade was only a little longer than my forearm, wide, sharp, made of iron with no hand guard and a short handle. Perfect for slicing and dicing in a cramped bathroom.
The bartender drew in a long, raspy breath. My legs tensed. I couldn’t see anything more than a shadow as the door opened quickly; I jumped forward, stabbing my sword at the dark figure.
Then I saw his eyes. Just a hint of glowing gold, as if they were powered by batteries that were low on juice. He took a step back, grabbing my arm and twisting it, pulling me out of the stall and shoving me against the wall.
“Oof!” I huffed. My reflexes kicked in quickly and I reached out with a leg, pushing us apart. I stepped back, keeping my gladius in front of me. There were only about four feet of space between the bathroom wall and the row of stalls. Not enough room for me to swing a foil, not enough room for the bartender to spread his arms … but plenty of room to swing a shorter gladius.
Good call, Seth.
“Hero,” the bartender hissed. “I thought I smelled something foul.”
I stabbed at his dark, imposing figure with my gladius. But the bartender dodged, swatting at the flat blade with one strong hand.
“I’ll pluck your eyeballs and eat them like grapes!”
I said nothing, trying to keep track of his dark figure in the blackness. I had no doubt those eyes of his were helping him see. The tiles between us were illuminated just a bit by the crack under the bathroom door. I could see the tips of his feet as he moved closer. His hairy, animal-like toes had torn through the shoes. A wet slurp echoed off the tiled walls as he swallowed drool that had gathered in his mouth. What was he, really? A wolf? Something worse?
Whatever he was, he seemed pretty confident.
“Please don’t hurt me,” I begged.
That was all it took. He carelessly lunged forward with a growl. I stabbed again with my gladius, aiming for the eyes. My blade connected with something hard, and then there was a groan. The room grew bright as the bartender’s body quickly burned away.
I used my shirt to wipe the sweat from the hilt of the short sword, then stepped out of the bathroom. My pupils were already so dilated that it was easy to scan the entire room. It looked empty, save for the three band members onstage. The illumination from the EXIT signs bathed the drummer and bassist in a sinister glow. They were hunched over the fiddler’s body; when they saw me, they stood up.
But not the fiddler. He was still lying on the ground, groaning.
“Who are you?” asked the bassist. He clutched his bass as if it was a battle-axe. He was taller than the drummer, more feral-like, his hands and arms a little too big for the rest of his body. The drummer was smaller, thinner, but he was glowing differently. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt and shorts, and on his bare skin were old scars, dozens of them, each one glowing brightly.
I stepped beside the bar, eyeing them. Sizing them up. To be honest, I was thankful neither of them were giant hedgehogs.
“She’s the hero, you idiot,” said the drummer. “She’s going to kill us.”
The bassist snarled. “She’s not killing me.”
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“She’s probably going to kill you,” said the drummer. He kicked the fiddler a few times. “Hey, pull yourself together or we’re all going to die in this horrible bar!”
The fiddler stirred, mumbling something about his princess.
And then the bassist was off the stage, charging toward me with his bass held high over his head. I waited calmly for him, keeping the gladius low. He brought the bass down and I quickly stepped out of the way. The body of the bass crashed into the bar, tearing through the wooden surface. He tore his instrument free; there was no damage.
“That’s a pretty strong guitar,” I said, glancing over my shoulder to make sure the drummer wasn’t sneaking up on me. He wasn’t; instead, he kicked the fiddler again, trying to rouse him from his stupor.
“It’s a bass!” the bassist said, swinging it horizontally. I crouched low and it passed over my head. My feet propelled me forward and I swung in a wide, but hit only the neck of the bassist’s instrument. Instead of digging into the wood, the gladius simply bounced off the steel strings.
“Bass, guitar, whatever,” I said. “You’re obviously playing second fiddle.”
“You’re not funny.”
“What was your plan?” I asked, dodging another blow and trying my hand at another attack. This one was deflected again by the bass, but instead of stepping back I used my other hand to give the bassist a whap with my hand purse.
“You fool!” he snarled. “There never was a plan! Not a good one, anyway.” He swung again and I jumped back, nearer the bar now. “That stupid drunk just wanted to upset his ex-girlfriend. That’s all it ever is with him. Fifty long years of it!”
I chuckled, dodging another blow and positioning my feet into an narrow stance that would let me step closer with ease. I saw another opening, and then before I swung my gladius downward, I saw another one: he was getting tired. He was out of shape. He’d spent so many hours sitting on his butt drinking that he didn’t have the stamina to keep this up.
I stepped back, waiting for him to swing again. When he did, I jumped back, taking a deep breath and steadying the shakiness in my legs. The bassist was breathing hard as he closed the gap between us. I brought my sword up over my head and swung downward. He brought his bass up to deflect the blow with the neck. The gladius cut through the steel strings, bouncing off the hard wood. Before he could counter-attack, I swung the gladius around and swung quickly at his exposed torso.
“Urp,” he said, watching the burning cut expand and consume him. Black ashes fell to the ground.
I looked at my sword for a moment. How had I pulled that off?
“Wake up!” the drummer yelled again, kicking the fiddler harder. “She killed Gustav! We’re next, you bloody fool!”
I quickly closed the gap between us, fully intending to get rid of the drummer before he had any chance of attacking. If the bassist was going to swing his instrument around, I could only imagine the drummer had every intention of throwing his drums at me, and I wasn’t interested in seeing what kinds of bruises those might cause.
But then I stopped. The fiddler’s eyes had opened. He was looking at me, his face sweaty and his breathing raspy. Something cold and unfamiliar slipped around my right ankle. I looked down: the smoke was crawling over the sticky wooden floor, licking at my legs like a hesitant python ready to coil around its victim. In the red light, it looked as if it was breathing as it slipped out of the fiddler’s mouth.
I stepped back.
“All the music,” the fiddler said in a slurred voice. “I’ll steal all of it. Until my princess comes back to me.”
The drummer cackled. His face looked older now. Decayed, even, as if he’d been wearing makeup and now it was flaking off, exposing him for what he truly was. He reminded me of Edward on that last night we’d been together, only the drummer looked even more decayed, his flesh more rotten and scarred, as if all the years of drinking had sped up the aging process.
Well. If the Corrupted could age, I guess.
“You’re doomed now, little girl,” said the drummer. The dark smoke put pressure on my leg and I fell over, landing hard on the floor. The drummer laughed harder. “After we steal your music, I’m going to roast you over an open flame.”
“Rabbit,” I said, pulling myself to my feet.
The drummer cocked his head. “What’s that now?”
“Rabbit,” I said simply.
The drummer frowned, a little fleck of skin falling off his forehead. “I don’t …”
And then the dark shadow hopped out from behind the old cigarette machine, closing the distance so quick that I second-guessed whether it was Briar at all. Before the drummer could even turn his head at the sound, Briar was already airborne, twisting in the air so that his powerful feet were aimed right at the drummer’s body. When they connected, the drummer went flying across the room, landing in one of the booths and collapsing the table.
“What do we do now?!” Briar shouted, hopping away from the black smoke near his feet. It was pouring out of the fiddler’s mouth now, and as he brought himself to his knees, I saw an opening and jumped forward to deliver a killing blow.
The smoke pushed me back. I swung my gladius at it, succeeding only in dispersing it. The sound of a thousand songs seemed to fill the bar. There was no joy in any of them, even the songs I recognized. It was as if all the songs were flat, out of key; there was a sadness in each of them. They grew louder as more smoke poured from the fiddler’s mouth. He coughed once, then stood up, ignoring Briar and stepping off the stage. Briar gave him a kick for good measure, but it only succeeded in pushing him even closer to me.
“All the music,” the fiddler said. He lost his footing for a moment. “But first … a drink, perhaps.”
The smoke pushed me aside. He walked past me, toward the bar.
“Just a drink … for strength.”
“Alice!” Briar shouted. I turned. The rabbit was on the ground, grappling with the drummer. “Catch!” he said, kicking with both of his feet. The drummer went flying off the stage and I leaned forward, catching him with my sword. He burned away, leaving a smattering of ashes on my shirt and jeans.
“They were lousy bandmates anyway,” the fiddler mumbled, filling a glass from the tap. The sad music had grown louder. The smoke was now lining the floor of the bar like rolling black carpeting, swirling and clutching at my feet, making it difficult to move. I tried kicking it away but it felt thick, like wading through sand.
Then the door beside the bar opened. I saw her and blinked, sure I was seeing things. It was the woman from my dream, the one who’d had her music stolen from her by the fiddler. The princess.
“My prince,” she said.
The fiddler turned. His hard features softened. He stepped away from the bar, clutching his beer. “You’ve come back to me,” he whispered.
The woman shook her head. “I’ve come for the music. Your plan will never work.”
“It brought you here,” the fiddler said. I felt the smoke around my feet loosen. “That was always the plan.”
The dark mist swirled around her, stopping her. I slogged backward, closer to the booths, ready to charge the fiddler while he was distracted. But then a curious thing happened: the black mist retreated from the woman. She opened her mouth, took in a deep breath …
And sang. It was a beautiful tune, filled with agony and passion. There were no words, just a crescendo of notes that slowly pushed back the black smoke along the floor.
“Impossible!” the fiddler shouted, wincing in pain as the black smoke returned to him, wrapping around his legs as if afraid of the woman’s powerful voice. “I stole your music!”
The woman stopped singing. “You can’t steal my music, love. You can never steal my music.”
The fiddler stepped forward, and with a flick of his wrist, the black smoke lashed out. The woman opened her mouth and began singing again. The darkness stopped as if it had hit a wall. The fiddler fell to his knees in pain, clutching his ears.
The woman looked to me and gave a knowing nod.
I rushed forward, pushing through the weakened smoke, and reached out with my gladius. I felt the smoke push back, but it was too late to stop me. The fiddler’s eyes widened. He burned away, dropping the half-finished glass of beer in the process. It shattered on the floor, adding to the myriad stains already encrusted on the wood planks.
The woman stopped singing. The black smoke began to turn a bright blue. I turned back to her, my fingers nervously clutching my gladius. Behind her, Briar was sneaking up with a chair held over his head.
“I must restore the music,” said the woman. “All across this city, there are thousands who have lost their music because of that horrible man. I can restore it. I must restore it. People need music.”
I waved Briar off before he could attack. “That’s pretty noble for a Corrupted.”
She seemed to flinch at the word. She smiled, pulling back her curly hair. “I’ve not yet come that far. Some day. But not yet. My love of music has kept me from turning.”
“How can I trust you?” I asked. I’d already let one Corrupted go … letting another seemed like the start of a really bad trend.
“Come with me,” the woman said. She led us through the back room, which was nothing more than a large storage room filled with cardboard boxes. There were crates of alcohol locked up behind a steel cage. The floor was made of concrete, with a single drain in the center, stained a rusty brown.
The woman slipped her fingers through the holes in the cage protecting the alcohol. She pulled, ripping the door off. She tossed it on the floor with a clang, shrugging. “I’m not human, after all.”
“Quite the understatement,” the rabbit whispered. I elbowed him in the ribs.
The woman began moving crates of wine bottles. “My darling ex-love must have been surprised to see you here … no heroes of the past have ever sought him out.”
“He probably wasn’t a danger before tonight,” I said, remembering how vivid my dreams had grown.