Aftertaste

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “Well this is bollocks,” Pestilence says.

  “What?” War asks.

  “I’ll leave,” Global Warming says.

  “We can’t audition someone you don’t believe exists, can we?” Famine says.

  “All right then. Good luck.”

  “Are you sure someone’s there?” War asks, looking at them and then back at the spot where Global Warming waits. Or rather through him to the spot behind their recent arrival. War seems genuinely concerned.

  “Bye,” Global Warming says, turning away. He hesitates, hoping someone will stop him, then realizes nobody is trying. He vanishes, dispersed as a mist that the carpet sucks back into itself.

  “What? We’re both hallucinating, then?” Pestilence says. “Laz?”

  “He’s not there,” Laz says.

  “See?” War replies.

  “No, I mean he amscrayed.”

  Famine and Pestilence look back at where Global Warming stood and then roll their eyes to the cupola above them. The apocalypse will never come at this pace.

  Interviewer: Why don’t the Horsemen just go with three members?

  Laz: Oh, I could spin some crap about brand recognition, but between you and me? It’s ego. They’re hungry to prove Death made a mistake walking away. They wanna show him he’s the one that can be replaced.

  Interviewer: That’s a pretty brave statement considering your death rests in their hands. What happens when the Horsemen see this interview?

  Laz: I’ll be dead by then. Speaking of which, let me ask you something.

  Interviewer: Okay.

  Laz: Who’s this documentary for?

  Interviewer: Posterity.

  Laz: Never met her, and I think you’re lying, pal. There ain’t no posterity after the Big Show, no encores or additional performances. Just a thundering ovation and the mother of all wrap parties. Unless you’re here for another reason.

  Interviewer: Like?

  Laz: Like you know what’s going on. Like none of this has got to do with the final concert.

  Interviewer: Smart man. Well, let’s just say that the show will go on. Only, without you.

  Laz: Well, it’s about fucking time. Will you kill me already, please?

  Interviewer: Certainly.

  “Y’seen War?” Pestilence asks, glancing at the camera.

  “Uh-uh,” Famine replies.

  The greenroom is quiet, the bowls filled with chips, the trays covered in sliced veggies, mini-sandwiches and Oreo cookies, and a cooler filled with various alcoholic drinks. Famine moves from tray to tray, sampling things, taking mousy bites from everything before putting them back or licking the center from Oreo cookies, sandwiches, pigs in a blanket—really anything with a center to lick. He’s a grazer, never eating fully but nibbling and double-dipping instead.

  “I found Laz,” Pestilence says. “He’s dead. Did you break his contract?”

  Famine stops snacking, more confused than concerned. “No.”

  Pestilence glances around before whispering, “What about War?”

  “It’s not his style, mate. He’s anal about that sort of thing, with all his planning and the manufacturing of evidence before he even considers picking a fight. It’s like watching the Rain Man trying to undo a bra.”

  “Still. There’s something bothering me.”

  “What, you mean other than the dead bodies?” Famine says with a sneer.

  “We could be next.”

  “Been thinking about it. Decided it’d never happen.”

  “What, like it never happened to Child Labor and Drugs?”

  “Yeah, but they can’t live without their fans. Wouldn’t exist without them. After their fan clubs vanish, so do they. But us . . . we’ll still be around, mate. Hunger exists in the animal kingdom. Ask the dinosaurs. So does disease—ask those things that kept sodomizing the dinosaurs and infecting them with STDs.”

  “Oh, them!” Pestilence says. “Well, War can’t live without his fans either.”

  “Sure he can. Heaven was listening to him long before humans heard his tunes.”

  “Yeah,” Pestilence says, “but heaven went to war over humans. No humans, ergo no war.”

  “Bloody hell. You’ve pulled out the Latin. This is serious.”

  “Famine . . .”

  “What about Global Warming, then? He’s nothing without his fans. Why isn’t he croakers?”

  “I don’t know,” Pestilence admits. “But I have an idea. Whoever’s murdering our auditionees—”

  “Is that even a word?”

  “—is out to stop our farewell tour. You get me?”

  “Right,” Famine says. “So what’s the game?”

  Pestilence thinks about it and then smiles. “A surprise audition, and I know just the bint.”

  Interviewer: So, why did Death leave?

  Famine: He said we weren’t keeping up with the times.

  Pestilence: He accused us of playing the same old songs. Can you believe that? Us, stuck in a rut? He’s the one-hit wonder.

  “What’s going on?” War asks. He looks around the ballroom, at the camera, at his two compatriots. Famine sits on one chair, and Pestilence waits perched atop the high back of another, his feet muddying the cushion.

  “Last-minute audition,” Pestilence says happily.

  “Really? Who?” War asks. His fingers curl together nervously, and then when he notices Famine, Pestilence, and the camera watching him, he tries to act more relaxed (which isn’t unlike trying to watch a broom bend). “Who?” he asks more casually.

  “You’ll see,” Famine replies.

  As though on cue, the ground bulges, the carpet tearing apart from the groundswell beneath before it cracks open like an egg. The camera zooms in as the tremor subsides, leaving behind a beautiful white woman with silken black hair, Mother Goddess hips, and a red and black floral sarong that wreathes her ample body.

  “I believe you know Overpopulation?” Pestilence says.

  “My ex-wife!?” War shrieks in panic.

  “Hello, you sniveling, impotent little—” And then she drops dead, the shot that pierces her skull silent but nonetheless lethal. The room is still a moment before the ground rumbles again. This time, a beautiful black woman with a rich full Afro and wearing the same sarong as the woman on the ground appears. “—fart of a worm,” she says, continuing, and then realizes something. “Did you just try to—” Then she drops dead as well. This time the faint acrid smell of chlorine gas perfumes the air.

  Famine and Pestilence look over at War, who appears very nervous. “It was a bad breakup,” he protests meekly.

  The ground shudders anew, this time revealing a Japanese woman with a punkish pageboy cut. “—kill me? You weasel-fucker. You did—” And she too dies, her body blown to smithereens by an unseen explosion.

  “War!” Famine shouts. He’s covered in a layer of gore. “Stop that!”

  “You can’t kill her,” Pestilence says, picking out bits of woman from his long, feathered hair. “Not like you did the others.”

  “—try to kill me!” the full-figured Inuit woman with mahogany brown skin says.

  “Overpopulation, please. Can you give us a moment?” Pestilence asks.

  She hesitates, her black eyes locking on War, before she turns to Pestilence and replies sweetly with intent to wound her ex. “Of course, Pesti, dear. Just make sure you give him what’s coming to him.” With a final venomous glance at War, she and the two dead bodies and one human smear at her feet vanish.

  “Phew,” War says. “Glad that’s over. I have to say, she wouldn’t be a good fit for us, lads.”

  “War,” Famine warns. “You’ve been killing off potential bandmates.”

  “No I haven’t,” he says weakly.

  “You just murdered Overpopulation in front of us! Three times!” Pestilence says. “And the only audition who survived was the one you couldn’t see! Why, mate? Why’d you kill them?”

  “I—” War hesitates and then e
xhales, resigned to the truth. “I wanted the auditions to fail.”

  “Why?” Famine asks.

  “Because humans appreciate me. Without them, I’ll be the artist formerly known as War.”

  “Bloody hell, mate,” Famine says. “What’d you think was going to happen? That we wouldn’t notice?”

  “And why’d you have to kill Drugs? What’d he do to you?”

  “Nothing! But someone had declared war on drugs and—well—there you have it,” War says. “Made it easier to off him.”

  “Hold on,” Famine says. “Even if someone did declare war on Child Labor and Drugs ’n’ all that, you still can’t kill their careers. It’s not in you, mate.”

  “Sure it is,” War replies, suddenly unable to meet their gaze.

  “He’s right. None of us have that star power. In fact, Laz is the only contract you could break,” Pestilence says.

  “Laz? Laz is dead?” War asks. “I—I didn’t break his contract.”

  “That was me, I’m afraid.”

  The camera swings around in time to catch the interviewer striding in. He is tall and well groomed, comfortable in his blue sweater and black trousers.

  “You?” Famine asks.

  “And I would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for you meddling kids,” he says before winking at the camera. “Actually, I did get away with it.” His face remains the same, still imbued with a healthy glow and cheer, but his clothes turn ashen; the colors bleed from them.

  “You!” Famine says.

  “’Allo, Death,” Pestilence says. “Should have known you’d sabotage us.”

  “Yeah, but why?” Famine asks, looking from Death to War, then back to Death.

  War shrugs and smiles sheepishly. “I didn’t want to retire. Then Death offered to represent me.”

  “Yeah, but—but the final concert—everyone’s already bought tickets!” Famine says in protest. “We were going to knock ’em all dead!”

  “Change of plans,” Death says with a shrug. “No final concert. No going out with a bang. The show goes on and we keep releasing albums and harvesting the proceeds.”

  “It’s true,” War says, standing next to Death with a fevered, admiring look. “Death is going to be my manager. I can go back to my roots as Holy War!”

  “Besides, since humanity’s been around,” Death says, “I’ve discovered I can subcontract my work to them. Humans have grown so creative in offing each other, I hardly have to lift a finger!”

  “You mean you’re . . . lip-synching?” Pestilence asks, mortified.

  Death shrugs. “People will never know the difference. They don’t want to. So why not sit back, let them do the work and we reap the rewards?”

  “W-we’ll do this without you tossers, then!” Pestilence says.

  “Do what?” Death asks, laughing with a healthy joie de vivre. “Without me, you’re nothing. Famine without Death is a swollen belly. War without Death is a poke in the eye. Pestilence without Death is a sore throat. And the Apocalypse without Death is a bad hair day. You’ve always needed me. You still do.” With that, Death strides for the ballroom door.

  War tags along and pauses briefly to look back at Pestilence and Famine, almost pleading in his expression. “Please,” War says. “Join us. We can be together again.”

  War leaves when Famine and Pestilence don’t respond.

  The pair remain quiet for the better part of an hour, the camera dancing in and out of focus on them. Finally, as the camera pulls away, exiting the room and abandoning them, Famine speaks softly . . .

  “What if he’s right?”

  Famine: You sure the camera’s on?

  Pestilence: The light blinking?

  Famine: Yeah.

  Pestilence: Then it’s on.

  Famine: All right, then. Our next audition is, um, Natural Disaster is it?

  Natural Disaster: That’s right. You guys still auditioning for the final show? ’Cause there’s a lot I can bring to the table, visual effects wise. Explosions, props and a light show you gotta see to believe.

  Pestilence: Brilliant!

  Famine: Though we’ve decided to put the final show on hold and start a new world tour. You good with that?

  Natural Disaster: Absolutely. How long we talking?

  Pestilence: Indefinitely.

  Famine: It’s for our new album, Hell Is an Afterthought. We’re dedicating it to the fans.

  Pestilence: Right, because without our fans, none of this could happen.

  About the Authors

  After deciding to write a piece for this volume, the normally emo CHRIS ABBEY held three séances to summon a story from the ghost of Jack Davis. Since Mr. Davis is thankfully still alive, he wound up with this piece instead. Chris is best known for The Wonderland Tarot, in collaboration with artist Morgana Abbey (no relation). He lives in Buffalo, three blocks from a street named Voorhees.

  KELLEY ARMSTRONG is the author of the New York Times bestselling “Women of the Otherworld” paranormal suspense series and “Darkest Powers” young adult urban fantasy trilogy, as well as the Nadia Stafford crime series. She grew up in southwestern Ontario, where she still lives with her family. A former computer programmer, she’s now escaped her corporate cubicle and hopes never to return. Her website is www.kelleyarmstrong.com.

  L. A. BANKS was named a 2010 Living Legend by the Black Alumni Society of the University of Pennsylvania, received the 2009 Romantic Times Booklover’s Career Choice Award for Paranormal Fiction, was named one of Pennsylvania’s Top 50 Women in Business for 2008, and won the 2008 Essence Storyteller of the Year award. Ms. Banks wrote more than forty-two novels and contributed to twenty-three novellas in the genres of romance, women’s fiction, crime/suspense thrillers, and paranormal lore. She was a proud member of The Liars Club, a Board of Trustee member for the Philadelphia Free Library, and served on the Mayor’s Commission on Literacy. Banks was a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania Wharton undergraduate program, with a Master’s in Fine Arts from Temple University. L. A. Banks passed away in 2011; “Bayou Brawl” is one of the last stories she wrote.

  MIKE BARON broke into comics with Nexus, his groundbreaking science fiction title co-created with illustrator Steve Rude. He has written for Creem, The Boston Globe, Isthmus, AARP Magazine, Oui, Madison, Fusion, Poudre Magazine, Argosy, and many others. Nexus is currently being published in hardcover by Dark Horse. Baron has won two Eisners and an Inkpot for his work on Nexus, now being published in five languages including French, Italian, Portuguese, and Spanish. Baron’s revamp of DC’s The Flash continues to garner great reviews. Marvel recently published two collections of Baron’s work: The Essential Punisher Vol. II and The Essential Punisher Vol. III. A prolific creator, Baron is at least partly responsible for The Badger, Spyke, Feud, The Hook, and The Architect. The latter is available as a graphic novel from Big Head Press.

  JIM BUTCHER is the author of the Dresden Files and the Codex Alera. He hopes to be the author of many more stories because that way they’ll finally be in other people’s brains distracting them, instead of in his own brain distracting him. He lives in Missouri with his wife, supernatural romance and romantic suspense author Shannon Butcher, and a ferocious watchdog.

  DON D’AMMASSA is the author of seven novels and two hundred short stories. He was book reviewer for Science Fiction Chronicle for almost thirty years and now reviews for his own website. He has been writing full time since 2000.

  STEPHEN DORATO is the pseudonym of a labradoodle living in a Boston suburb whose fiction has appeared in Gothic.net and Feral Fiction. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys hanging out on the couch with her bitch Valerie or eating yummy moths.

  JG FAHERTY grew up in the haunted Hudson Valley region of New York, and still resides there. Living in an area filled with Revolutionary War battlegrounds, two-hundred-year-old gravesites, ghosts, haunted roads, and tales of monsters in the woods has provided a rich background for his writing. A lifelong fan of horror and dark fict
ion, JG enjoys reading, watching movies, golfing, hiking, volunteering as an exotic animal caretaker, and playing the guitar. One of his favorite childhood playgrounds was an eighteenth-century cemetery. JG’s first novel, Carnival of Fear, was released in 2010. His next book, Ghosts of Coronado Bay, a YA supernatural thriller, was published in 2011. Cemetery Club, his third novel, and The Cold Spot, a novella, will be released in 2012. His other credits include more than two dozen short stories in major genre magazines and anthologies. You can follow him at www.jgfaherty.com, www.twitter.com/jgfaherty, and www.facebook/jgfaherty.

  CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN is the award-winning, bestselling author of such novels as Of Saints and Shadows, The Myth Hunters, The Boys Are Back in Town, and Strangewood. He has also written books for teens and young adults, including The Secret Journeys of Jack London, co-authored with Tim Lebbon, and the Body of Evidence series. He co-wrote the illustrated novel Baltimore, or, The Steadfast Tin Soldier and the Vampire with Mike Mignola, as well as the comic book series born from the novel. Golden was born and raised in Massachusetts, where he still lives with his family. His original novels have been published in more than fourteen languages. Please visit him at www.christophergolden.com.

  After a stint of several years in dinner theater, backup vocals, and bartending, HEATHER GRAHAM stayed home after the birth of her third child and began to write. Now a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, she has written over one hundred novels and novellas including category, romantic suspense, historical romance, vampire fiction, time travel, occult, and Christmas holiday fare.

  BRAD C. HODSON currently resides in Los Angeles, where he’s happy to exercise his willpower every day by deciding not to play Demolition Derby while stuck in traffic. His work can be seen in a number of anthologies, as well as the feature film George’s Intervention and the play A Year Without a Summer. He’s currently adapting William Peter Blatty’s Legion (aka Exorcist III) for the stage as well as gearing up for preproduction on his feature film directorial debut, Neverborn. His first novel, Darling, was released by Bad Moon Books in April 2012. He tries to stay busy and enjoys writing about himself in third person. For more information, please visit www.brad-hodson.com.