Last Things

by Jacqueline West

  Patrick doesn’t say anything.

  The people around me have taken notice. The regulars, the kids from school, the newcomers who recognize Last Things from pictures they’ve seen online. They’re all watching the band, trying to pretend they’re not watching. They’re noticing the heaps of cables, the hard black cases, the way the band swings into this wordless routine. They probably don’t notice the tension strung between them, invisible and strong as spiders’ thread.

  But I see it. The woods see it, too. They’ll use it if they can.

  The guys carry their equipment to the far door. Jezz and Patrick and Ike begin the drill they perform every weekend. Placing stands. Checking wires. Anders carries loads back and forth from the parking lot, keeping his head down. He avoids the stage like it’s something hot.

  More car doors slam.

  More and more.

  I slip inside, through the patio doors, into the very back of the room.

  The band gathers for a quick sound check. Anders keeps his back to the room, his head down. He tests a mic, a handful of chords, then disappears through the backstage door. A few minutes and a few notes later, Jezz and Patrick follow.

  Soon the Crow’s Nest is fuller than I’ve ever seen it. Bodies and voices ricochet from the walls. I see most of the senior class. Frankie’s friends, in a tightly orbiting cluster. Frankie herself, wearing a halter-neck dress that makes one guy walk straight into a table and spill his coffee. I spot Flynn, Anders’s guitar teacher, halfway up the room’s right side. He doesn’t usually come to the shows. I try to look closer, but he’s already lost in the crowd. More schoolkids. More people in expensive boots who’ve driven up from the Cities. More and more and more.

  When Last Things finally takes the stage, the screaming is so loud that it shuts out the thunder. The guys position themselves. They’re stretched wires. Flying sparks. They look ready to explode.

  Anders gives a nod so small only the band and I can see it.

  They launch into “Blood Money.” Then “Frozen.” “Come Out and Play.” “Dead Girl.” There’s barely a breath between songs. The music feels as tight and hard as ever, but there’s a new texture to it, something that cuts deep. Anders’s hands move so fast they aren’t hands at all. They’re just a pale blur of sound streaming out of that black guitar.

  They play “Hitting Sleep.” Everyone in the room seems to know this one. I scan the crowd. People are jumping in time, combat boots and Converse low tops pounding on the scarred hardwood floors. The Crow’s Nest is one huge, pulsing heart.

  Knock knock knock

  until you wake me

  Pound pound pound

  until you break me

  There’s another smash of thunder. Closer this time. Even it seems to rumble to Patrick’s rhythm.

  And that’s when I see her.

  She’s perched on a high stool at the very edge of the opposite side of the room. Tight black pants. Tight black jacket. Sleek, short hair.

  She’s older than high school, older than college, but far from old. She’s watching the stage with an expression I recognize. Like Anders is the only real thing in the room.

  I let my eyes focus, the way I usually only do when I’m alone in the woods and no one else will see. Because I know what my face looks like when I do this. I know what happens to my eyes.

  The room goes gray. There are flashes of light around me, bright beacons burning here and there. But I’m not looking for those.

  I stare at the woman.

  She ripples with blackness.

  It seeps out of her in pools and tendrils. Too much to be held inside. It climbs up the wall. It drips from her feet, pools on the floor. It slithers in and out as she breathes.

  She’s one of them.

  She’s here to take him away.

  Blood surges into my chest.

  I keep still. Wait. Wait.

  Watch the stage.

  Watch her.

  Watch him.

  Last Things tears through “Bleeding Out” and “Minotaur,” and, finally “Superhero.”

  By the time it ends, there’s something in the room with all of us. Something that makes the air as combustible as a gas leak. Something that pulls the crowd’s pulses into its dance.

  The woman is sitting perfectly still at her little table. But the music affects her, too. I can see it. The darkness seeping through her is wilder, thicker. It climbs above her, stretching up the walls, reaching toward the stage like vines or veins.

  But I can’t move. Not yet.

  The sky outside the windows is pure black.

  The final chord dies. The crowd screams.

  Last Things leaves the stage.

  They don’t usually play encores. Everyone knows “Superhero” is the end. But tonight no one leaves. No one turns around to pick up their bag or weaves out between other people’s sweaty bodies. The screaming goes on and on and on. Everyone is on their feet. I can’t see through the crowd anymore. There’s only a wall of bodies between me and the stage.

  Finally, amazingly, the band steps back out.

  Jezz and Patrick wave. Jezz grins; he does a little hop, clicking his heels together in midair. Patrick smiles. They know how incredible tonight was. They feel the thing in the air. The strange, flammable, crackling thing.

  Anders crosses slowly in front of them.

  His back is straight. The guitar hangs loosely from his shoulder. Emotions glance off his face, trying to break through the smoothness. He leans toward the microphone. Smiles with one corner of his mouth.

  The light in him is dim. It’s almost gone.

  “I guess you guys want some more,” he says in that deep voice.

  The screams explode.

  Anders leans toward Jezz and Patrick. They whisper. Nod.

  They turn around. Assume positions. Then they whip into a cover of Prince’s “I Would Die 4 U” so hard and hammering that the tables beside me vibrate.

  There’s more screaming when they’re done, but this time the band doesn’t reappear. The crowd is delirious. Shouting. Laughing. Shoving.

  I crane through the bodies toward the woman. Toward the spot where the woman was. Because she’s gone.

  I climb onto a stool. Scan the crowd. There’s nothing. No sign.

  No.

  No. No.

  How could I have lost her? How could I have let myself lose her?

  Blood thunders through me. My head starts to roar. I keep my eyes clear.

  When the crowd dissolves at last, rivulets of people dribbling out the doors, I look at the stage. Jezz and Patrick are there, chatting with a few fans who’ve clustered at the edge.

  Only Jezz and Patrick.

  No Anders.

  I scan the room again. He’s not here.

  No. No. No. I rush out to the parking lot. I have to fight myself to keep my steps unobtrusively slow.

  Anders’s small white car is just bumping out of the gravel onto the road.

  I can’t lose him now.

  I grab the blue bike. Throw my leg over. I rush forward, into the woods.

  The first raindrops start to spatter as I plunge into the trees. I’m moving so fast that they turn into streaks as soon as they hit my skin. My hair whips behind me. The trees are just flashes.

  Thunder shakes the sky. Black sky, black trees, shades of black on black.

  The bike’s tires leave the ground. I fly.

  The wind is strong. Leaves tear from twigs. Branches strain like bones about to snap. But the woods are laughing. I can hear them laughing.

  I keep within the trees, following the curve of the road as it heads toward town. In the distance, to my right, I can see the taillights of the white car, leaving their red smears on the road. Rain fogs my eyes. Branches groan. A bolt of lightning shocks the woods, bleaching everything. I blink fast, but my vision is dulled, my focus lost. Darkness plunges in, thicker than before. I hit a root and nearly fall.

  But I won’t let them take him.

 
Thunder. Another flash. A roar.

  Something huge and black and monstrously heavy lunges in front of me.

  I wrench the handlebars to the side.

  The smoking tree trunk crashes down inches from my bike. Falling branches swipe my face. Needles lash my arms.

  The bike tilts. I catch myself on my left foot, just managing to stay upright.

  Another few inches and the bike might have been crushed.

  I wipe the rain from my eyes.

  And that’s when I see it. Just for a fraction of a second.

  It’s crouched on top of the fallen trunk. Limbs long and dark furred and strong. Face like an elk’s skull, but with a carnivore’s jagged teeth. Crown of black antlers. Long fingers. Claws.

  Its eyes are like hailstones. Empty. Dead white. They stare down at me.

  I don’t move.

  I stare back.

  But the spattering rain finally makes me blink.

  And it’s gone.

  I scan the woods. No sign of it now. Of anything. The road is only a vague blur in the distance. The beacon of Anders’s taillights has disappeared.

  I breathe deep.

  They’ve made their move.

  I’ll have to make a move of my own.

  Anders

  I skid around a wide bend of the highway. The rain’s hard enough to make the roads slick, and the Nissan’s wipers barely keep up. I don’t touch the brakes. I roar toward town, sometimes feeling like something is chasing after me, sometimes feeling I’m chasing something else. Either way, I can’t slow down.

  I’m headed toward the studio.

  Flynn was waiting backstage in the tiny greenroom when we finished our set tonight. He’s played the Crow’s Nest himself, so he knows the way in. He was beaming so hard that I could see all of his teeth.

  “That was amazing, man!” He grabbed my arm and pounded me on the back, speaking over the noise of the crowd that was still screaming beyond the door. “Amazing!”

  I could feel my arm vibrating in his grip. The adrenaline of the show was still surging through me. I could have flown through walls.

  “That new one? ‘Minotaur’? Awesome,” Flynn went on over the noise. “One of the best solos I’ve ever heard you do.”

  “Thanks.” I bent down to put Yvonne in her case, which let me hide my face for a second. I was grinning like an idiot. It was one of the best solos I’d ever done. Clean and strong and lightning fast. I could feel it. “I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight.”

  “Yeah. I thought I’d surprise you.” Flynn leaned closer so that Jezz and Patrick and Ellie and Lee, who’d snuck into the back room, too, couldn’t overhear. “There’s somebody you need to talk to tonight.”

  I blinked at him. “What?”

  “She was here. She heard the whole show. Now she’s waiting for you at the studio.” Flynn grinned. “I set it up. Hope you don’t mind. We thought it would be easier to talk somewhere quieter.”

  Flynn’s words could barely reach me through the noise and the buzz. “She?”

  “Yep. She came all the way up here to hear you guys.”

  “From Minneapolis?”

  “Chicago.” Flynn grinned even wider. “She’s with one of the big ones.”

  I glanced at the guys. They were goofing around with Ellie and Lee, not paying any attention. “A record company, or—”

  “Artist management. She knows her stuff. She knows exactly what to do for you.” Flynn’s eyes hooked into mine. “Listen. I know it’s still a couple of weeks until graduation . . . but I’m telling you, this is the deal you’ve been waiting for.”

  I was already so laced with energy, my heart couldn’t pound any harder. But I heard my voice catch. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.” Flynn’s smile looked ready to burst like a firework. “These guys work with huge names. Huge. This is it, Anders. This is the door.”

  Ellie laughed at something Jezz said. I looked up at him, his sweaty blond hair sticking out of his head in a million directions, like he’s just gotten out of the shower and toweled himself halfway dry. Patrick was smiling at them both, stretching his arms behind his back, one at a time.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll get the guys.”

  Flynn’s hand caught my arm. “Anders. She just wants to talk to you.”

  “Wait.” I blinked at him. “What?”

  “She asked for a meeting with you,” Flynn said. “Just you. At least at this first meeting. Even I’m not tagging along. You can handle this on your own.”

  “I can’t do that,” I told him, my voice low. “You know I can’t.”

  “I know you should.” Flynn’s gaze was steady. “If you want to talk about the band, fine. Discuss that with her. But at least meet with her. Learn what she’s offering.” He still hadn’t let go of my arm. “You owe this to yourself, man,” he added. “You owe it to what you can do.”

  Maybe it was because this was Flynn, who knows me better than almost anyone. Maybe it was because, deep down, this was exactly what I already wanted. Maybe it was just to stop the twisting feeling in my stomach. Whatever the reason, I heard myself saying, “Okay. Fine. I’ll go.”

  I made some kind of excuse to the guys, something about the car, Dad needing me home early. Jezz and Patrick were still high on the energy of our set. The night had been good enough to wipe out their anger about the last time I went behind their backs. They both gave me quick, sweaty hugs. We pounded one another on the shoulders.

  And then I ducked out the back door.

  Now I’m skidding around another bend, veering closer to the streetlights of downtown.

  I park in front of the studio, behind a glossy black Audi with Illinois plates, and jump out into the rain. Most of Main Street is asleep at this hour, even on a Friday night. The signs of a few bars glow through the wetness. I duck my head and run for the door.

  I’ve never been in the studio late at night. It feels strange, pushing open the stenciled glass, stepping out of the pouring rain into a hall that’s only lit by safety lights.

  I open the metal basement door.

  There’s usually noise. Guitars and drums and keyboards leaking out of the lesson rooms, making a messy soup in the air. But now, except for the hiss of the rain, it’s silent. A few of the lights in the central room are glowing.

  I step off the staircase and into the waiting room.

  A woman is sitting on one of the couches.

  She’s wearing tight black pants and a low-cut leather top. She’s got black hair that swings at an angle across her forehead and fancy high-heeled boots, and eyeliner that flicks up into little points at the ends.

  And I am young and shabby and totally stupid. There’s a hole in the left cuff of my jeans. My hair is flattened with rain. My T-shirt is stuck to my back. I can feel the sweat that’s pooled in the band of my boxer shorts starting to chafe my skin.

  For the first time all of this feels real.

  She’s here. I’m here. My real life is about to begin.

  “Um . . . hi,” I hear myself say. I sound like a little kid who’s meeting Santa Claus at the mall. If Santa Claus was hot.

  The woman stands up. She’d be tall even without her high-heeled boots. Which make her really, really tall.

  “Anders Thorson.” She smiles. “I’m thrilled to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  She reaches out to shake my hand. Hers is a little chilly, but firm. Mine is wet.

  The woman sits back down. She gestures casually to the chair across from her. I’ve always wondered how you get to be one of those people who makes everything around you seem like it belongs to you.

  “I’m a huge fan,” she says as I sit down. “We all are. Everyone I work with. Seeing you play tonight just confirmed everything we’ve thought about you.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” Why am I suddenly so nervous? I don’t know where to look. There’s something about the sharpness of the woman’s eyes that makes me not want to look stra
ight into them. But I really don’t want to stare down the deep V of her top, either. I aim for somewhere around her shoulder.

  “Did Flynn explain why I’m here?” she asks.

  “Kind of. Yeah.” My heart hammers a quick double beat. Don’t look down her shirt.

  “So. To put it in really basic terms”—she crosses her legs—“we help musicians achieve everything that they can achieve. And we’d love to do that for you.”

  Anything I could say—Really? Me?—sounds idiotic. So I nod and keep my mouth shut.

  “I hope you recognize your own potential,” she goes on. “We certainly do. We’ve heard your material. We’ve been keeping an eye on you. For years, as a matter of fact. You’re something special. With our help, you could go far.”

  I dig my nails into the meat of my palm. Here it is. “How far?”

  The woman smiles, this curling, catlike smile, like we already share a secret. “For you, Anders, there may be no limit.”

  My heart is beating so hard, I feel its pulses in the tips of my fingers. This is it. This is it. This is it.

  The woman spreads her hands. “We would love to work with you. I’m telling you that straight out. I would like to sign you here and now. So.” She pauses to smile at me again. “What do you think?”

  This is where I should jump.

  But instead, I feel my knees lock. Maybe Flynn was right. Maybe I’m looking down from the end of the diving board, letting fear stop me. Maybe I just need to know what I’m jumping into first.

  “I think I need . . .” My voice sticks. I clear my throat. “I need a little time to think. Do some research. Talk to some people.”

  “Of course.” The woman’s tone is perfectly polite, but her face looks the tiniest bit amused. “Do what you need to do. But if you’ll let me make our case . . .” She leans on the arm of the couch, angling closer to me. “You’ve got the magic combination right now. Youth. Energy. Incredible talent. Good looks.”

  My cheeks are heating up. Goddamn it.

  “You’ve got a growing following,” she goes on. “You’ve got building online interest. You’ve got everything. But we know how quickly these things can change.”

  I clear my throat again. “Last Things is just getting started.”

  “You’re adults,” she says. There’s a special little tang in the way she says the word. Adults. “You’re just a few weeks from graduating. And then what? Do you plan to stay here?”