BEHIND THE MUSIC
The Empty Bottle, Chicago, IL
The musicians were quiet for a long moment. A disheartening silence, the only sound being the croaking groans of the Infected wandering the streets outside and the absentminded tapping of the drummer's sticks on the lackluster wood of the stage. The band was suddenly introspective, a bit drunk, yet pensive all the same, hurt by this newfound reality where their abandonment to fate was all but finalized. Deep down they knew. Content to drown themselves in booze and pot, to ignore the inevitable, but the arrival of Leon Bryne had forced them to confront the abyss that was oblivion.
Put simply: they were scared.
"Fuck me." Arnold Hopper shook his head as if refusing to believe that no help was coming. His eyes, however, betrayed him as dawning realization took root. He tightened his grip on the bottle of liquor until his knuckles turned white. "Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!" He threw the bottle as hard as he could, the glass shattering on the far wall, the bitter scent of alcohol mixing with the stale air of the venue. He was on his feet now, pacing with both hands raised to cradle his head.
Hoa Nguyen hurried over, genuine worry evident on her face. "Calm down. We'll figure something out, okay."
He rounded on her and grabbed her by the shoulders, not in aggression but more-so to steady himself. When he spoke the anger had sputtered out to some degree. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. We were gonna be big; names up in lights."
There was a banging on the door. An infected man was leaning against the glass, slapping its palm to the glass as if wanting inside.
"Fuck off you pillock. This damn mess is your fault, so be glad I don't come out there and backhand you."
Hoa, whether drunk or high, possibly both, laughed at the comment, and the mood lightened. The bleakness of the situation lingered, like a bad smell, but it was somewhat more bearable now that a small bit of steam had been let off. A good shout was all that was needed. Breaking stuff help, too.
Kenneth Rockmeier was twirling his drumsticks in his hand. Deep in thought, as if contemplating the answer to life, the universe, and everything. "Ya know, we were hired to play a show, and one fan is better than no fans."
Arnold looked over to Leon. Slowly the cogs cranked into motion — clogged by the vast amounts of booze and pot — until the figurative light bulb sparked to life. He nodded as the idea worked its way into his mind. "Yeah. Yeah! We came here to play a gig." He jumped up onto the stage with more finesse than one would think possible for a man lost to drunkenness. His guitar lay abandoned over near the amp, a deep and shiny blue edged in black. Hoa quickly caught on and hurried to find her bass. Kenneth was already sitting at his drums, tapping a little march on the snare.
Their manager, Donald Grimer, shook his head. "We don't have time for this."
"Yes we do. We have all the fucking time in the world, loads of it, fucking tons and heaps of it, but right here, right now, this moment is ours, and it's the last one we're ever getting. So sit down and enjoy the Goddamn show." Arnold plugged in the amp. A small belch of feedback sounded.
There was no point arguing. Donald took a seat as did Leon.
Arnold stood front and center on the stage, Hoa to his left, and Kenneth a bit behind. Painted onto the bass of the drum kit was a stylized XIII. The mix system was a mess so they settled for yelling really loud instead.
"Hello Chicago!" He held onto the "O" for longer than was necessary. Hoa clapped and cheered as if trying to rile up a crowd; Kenneth tapped a roll. "We're Thirteen Leagues, and this will be our first and last show. Let's make it fucking amazing!" Arnold strummed the guitar, the noise a high screeching as he made final adjustments to the knobs and dials until the sound smoothed into something reminiscent of 90's grunge. Heavy but with lighter undertones.
Without a word the band dove seamlessly into the music. A hard intro of guitar backed by the beat of the drums and the steady groove of the bass. A quick build to an apex followed by a descending crossover to the verse, Arnold on vocals with Hoa on harmony. A sound distinctively modern yet undoubtedly influenced by the punk and grunge popularized decades ago.
They were good. Really good. Far better than expected.
"They were gonna be the next big thing," Donald said to Leon, having to practically shout to be heard over the music. "Shame, don't you think?"
More Infected were gathering now outside the main entrance, drawn by the noise, the banging of hands on glass an odd compliment to the guitar riff as Arnold ascended into the chorus, voice a harsh contrast to the airy tones of Hoa. A clash of cymbals, drumsticks a blur. The band was oblivious to the danger knocking on the door, or maybe they just didn't care. They were lost to the moment and that was all that mattered. The here and the now.
The climax, a cacophony of sound, and then a howling interruption as an overweight Infected rushed onto stage, having found its way inside through the backdoor. Donald yelled out as Leon jumped up from his seat. The Infected launched itself at Arnold, who promptly slammed the weight of his guitar into its gut. It stumbled, stammered some angry gibberish, and was killed by a skull fracture as the guitar smashed against its temple. The music stopped suddenly, replaced now entirely by the Infected outside breaking their way inside. Hungry yowls and cracking glass.
"Can we go now?!" yelled Donald, gun held protectively with the barrel pointed towards the door.
The band scattered off the stage to grab whatever they could. "I got the alcohol!" shouted Kenneth, hopping over the bar to scoop whatever bottles they had left remaining into his bag. Arnold and Hoa grabbed the snacks. Donald yelled for them to get their asses moving. Paltry supplies in hand, they hurried to the rear exit which, thankfully, was clear of Infected.
"You got a safe place?" Arnold asked, looking to Leon.
SCHOOL'S OUT FOREVER
Washington Elementary School, Naperville, IL
The woman looked a bit indignant. "I can hear you, you know?" she said, shaking her head as if wondering just how she'd been caught up in this situation. Not that she had a choice but to play along. "We have to get out eventually... I'm looking for any food in the pantry if there's any left, and it'll help knowing what I'm up against."
Cadence, again adopting the role of unofficial leader, nodded as she considered the statement. "There might be some food in the cafeteria. There's a first-aid kit in the infirmary, too. We tried to snag it but Mr. Hanover chased us off."
Although some summer programs were in session, many with a provided lunch, the amount of food to be found inside the cafeteria was likely to be little or nothing, the bare minimum considering the bulk of the school was out for vacation. Raw food, such as produce or meat, had likely expired a long time ago. Mr. Hanover had probably eaten the rest, but it was worth a shot, and if getting Sun Yunri to help meant taking her to the cafeteria then so be it. She looked capable of handling the middle-aged principal. A small detour was all. As for what they planned to do afterwards, they'd cross that bridge when they came to it.
"This isn't a good idea," Adam complained, doubting the woman's ability to handle Mr. Hanover.
"We don't have a choice. Staying here isn't a good idea either," Jessica pointed out.
Alex simply shrugged.
The kids agreed to help Sun Yunri in her search for food as payment for her helping them with Mr. Hanover. Since she was the adult, and seeing as how she had the beating stick, she was allowed to go first, Cadence giving directions to wherever they needed to go.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the school, Clement Willoughby and Crystal Wu had wandered into the cafeteria. The spacious room was dark, the overhead lights having been turned off. Posters were tacked to the walls. The tiled floor was surprisingly clean, as if mopped recently, and if either had been paying attention they would have noticed the mop bucket just outside the door filled with mildly fragrant water turned grey by dirt. The table arrangement, however, was puzzling, everything having been pushed to either side to create a small clearing with a circle of chairs in the middle. A few toys were sitting as if expecting Clement and Crystal. The cafeteria was empty otherwise.
The pair had little time to explore when the school's intercom shrilled to life. A high-toned whistle as feedback looped on the other end, followed by the thrump, thrump, thrump of someone tapping on the microphone. The voice was low and crazed in agitated intensity. "This is Principal Hanover," it said, pausing with a ragged breath, "I regret to inform you, the parents, the loving parents of wonderful children, that the PTA meeting has been canceled for tonight. I sincerely apologize for the inconvenience." A small chuckle, and in the background a hard knocking of metal on wood as if something was being dropped again and again and again in boredom. The noise stopped and was replaced by pages turning. "The PTA meeting has been rescheduled for, let's see here, ah, of course. Never. Yes, never. The PTA meeting is cancelled forever. Imagine that. Now get out. Out! OUT! GET OUT OF MY SCHOOL!"
The microphone dropped as the man on the other end smashed the metal bar into the desk. A crack of wood, and then a door slamming shut. Nothing else. Just the continued ring of the intercom left on.
Mr. Hanover was on his way.
