The Scream (31 page)

And Jesse felt afraid.

As the music itself seemed filled with things . . .

Walker and Hook exchanged conspiratorial nods of approval. From the insular nest of the master sound board the effect was crystal clear: they were surrounded by a sea of ululating flesh. The Scream's first song, "Rip the Veil," was nearing its climatic wall of white-hot noise. Hook's finger rested delicately on the sub mixer, right over the slider for channel twenty-three. He looked at Walker. Walker nodded.

The slider went up. A tiny, tiny bit. But enough.

For the moment.

You couldn't hear even the result, but you sure as hell could see it. A ripple passed through the thrashing waves of humanity; a shudder, almost. Hook smiled.

They were primed.

Kyle and Logan stood at the rim of ramp SC, smack-dab in the middle of the arena shell. Just two more guys in rumpled black field jackets and shades, faceless in the massmind of the crowd. The shiny yellow backstage passes, their purpose fulfilled, had been summarily jettisoned into the nearest trash can.

A pity, Kyle thought. He could easily have parlayed those passes into a blowjob with some succulent ramp rat in the back of Logan's van. Maybe doubles, go around the world in stereo.

But no. Business before pleasure. No time for that now. Way too busy.

And far too dangerous. The passes were for one thing and one thing only: to get them by security. Beyond that, anonymity was the ticket. Besides, there'd be plenty of pleasure later. That, and much, much more.

Or so they were promised.

Kyle surveyed the sprawling panorama before him and felt the tiniest twinge of regret. It was nothing personal; he bore ninety-nine percent of these people no ill will at all. He liked the music just fine, and he thought the politics of it all were naive, though heartfelt.

But that was all neither here nor there. There was a job to be done, and these poor, unwitting motherfuckers had their own part to play in it, each and every one. Just as Logan had his.

And Kyle had his.

And as he reached inside his jacket to touch the cool steel case of what nestled there, he felt reasonably sure about which part would last longer.

And which couldn't end nearly soon enough.

Tara's voice cut through the between-song roar of the crowd like a siren in the eye of a hurricane.

"DO YOU WANT IT?"

Applause.

"I said, DO YOU
WANT
IT??"

BAM!
The rhythmic section hit a power chord to underscore the emphatic appeal. The audience went nuts; they wanted it, all right. Tara looked back toward Rod and Alex wickedly. Alex was very busy, making microsecond adjustments. Tara turned hack to the crowd to ask the critical question.

"Yeah, well . . . WHAT DO YOU WANT TO
DO
WITH IT?"

The answer came back ragged.
Stick it in
.

"SAY
WHAT?
"

Again, stronger.
STICK IT IN
.

Tara looked back; Alex nodded. He got it.

"And once you got it in, babies. Once you got . . . it . . . in . . .

"WHAT DO YOU DO
THEN
???"

Got it. The Answer.

Loud and clear.

The band on the TV screen kicked full tilt no sooner than the words had left their lips. "Stick It In" was always a big crowd pleaser, replete with its follow-the-bouncing-bloody-ball chorus. Alex Royale had captured the audience response on one of his digital samplers, Cody explained, and he boosted it and fed it back into the mix every time Tara sang the fateful chorus.

The band overdrived through the first verse . . .

"Cold steel, hot slice

feel the edge of my

my strange device"

Tara drew a dagger from the slit suede folds of her waistlet and traced it suggestively up her inner thigh.

"It's real, it's right

it's gonna be

my baby tonight"

Blood tracked in close-up on the screen, shiny rivulets down to the muscular curve of her calf.

"Holy shit!" Madeline cried. "How does she
do
that?"

"Special effects," Rachel said. "Cody told me it's rigged with a hollow handle that has a squeeze-bulb filled with stage blood. Isn't that right. Cody?"

"
Yipper
," barked the little speaker over the set. "
That blade prob'ly couldn't cut Cheese Whiz
."

"It's certainly realistic," Sheri said.

"It's disgusting," Lauren added.

On screen, Tara sang:

"When you lay down

on my wedding bed

we won't get it up

till the night runs red

and you

STICK IT IN!

(
TWIST IT!!
)

STICK IT IN!!

(
TWIST IT!!
)

STICK IT IN!!!

(
TWIST IT!!
)"

"Gak," Madeline sputtered.

"Disgusting," Lauren sneered. And they all laughed. It was strangely funny.

For about another thirty seconds.

Now. Walker sensed it in the way the shadows shifted, in the way a child senses the advances of a funny uncle. The song had reached its big crowd-call breakdown; time to get over to the Eastern parking apron, to the makeshift heliport.

To get things warmed up.

"STICK IT IN!!!"

(
TWIST IT!!
)

He cast one last glance at Hook; one micro-flicker of optic musculature that said it all.

Crank it.

Hook beamed.

And did as he was told.

In the hive-mind: a spark, burgeoning to overglow. The perfect pitch, accomplished. The fuse, ignited.

The moment.

At hand.

It was a six-inch blade with a bone-white pearlite handle, and it flicked open easy as pie. Dickie dug it out of his right engineer boot and brought it to glistening life in a second.
Ker-snick
. A whisking arc of stainless steel perfection.

There was a pudgy guy in a white T-shirt in front of him. Dickie picked a spot just below the ribs and maybe an inch to the right of the spine. The point of the blade slid in smoothly, sunk as deep as the hilt would permit, then withdrew. The guy started to sink. His scream was drowned in the sound.

"EEYAAOW!" Dickie howled. All over the stadium, he knew, the same thing was going on. Fifty, maybe sixty of the Faithful, stickin' it in.

And twisting.

It was like a dream. So easy. So cool. Wolves among sheep, doffing the wool and letting it fly.
Snap snap
. Heave ho. As Pudgo collapsed, Dickie moved to the next in line. She was a tiny chick, maybe 5'3", and she went down silently when he slit her windpipe and sunk a boot into the backside of her knees.

And the blade was red. And the moment was hot. Two dripping dumbfucks down, and nobody had any idea what was going on. They were all facing forward, engrossed in the spectacle. They had no idea what was coming up behind or around them.

The next guy was huge, maybe six foot six. Dickie brought his hand up and buried his switch in the soft spot at the base of his skull, prying Heaven's Gate wide open. The dweeb beside him saw Goliath fall as the blade came out, half-turning in recognition that something had gone woefully amiss. No biggee.

Dickie stuck it in his eye.

Withdrew it.

And then turned.

He had a neat little swath behind him, and nobody even seemed to fucking notice. It was beautiful. So beautiful. It was just like the Plan had said it would be . . .

. . .
and the music raged
. . .

. . . as an MTV cameraman named Robert Harmon, in the midst of a crowd shot, found himself staring through his lens at the murder of a man named Carl Felscher and then broadcasting it live into millions of homes . . .

. . .
and the music howled
. . .

. . . and in the last fifteen seconds of Chris Konopliski's life, time careened out of control: stopping entirely, speeding crazily ahead, slowing to a terrible, terminal crawl.

It began the moment that the knife punched in through the shirt on his back, the back of his skin, the latissimus dorsi muscle and soft bowels beyond. It was a swift, sudden, and startling violation that was four inches long, one eighth of an inch high, and three quarters of an inch thick at its widest point. It came from out of nowhere. And it hurt like a motherfucker.

Chris had been in the process of letting out a whoop. It turned instantly into something worse and far more deeply felt. When the blade began to twist within him, he lurched forward and away and let out a squeal that rivaled the three octaves above middle C that Rod Royale's guitar was violently proclaiming in that moment.

At that point the endorphins kicked in: the body's own natural opiates, racing in response to the suddenly savaged area, numbing the slit and severed nerves, trying desperately to bring the pain under control. He felt the blade start to slide out of him, but not the way he'd felt it slide in. It was God's way of buying him retaliation time, if he had it within him to act.

He did. In fact, he was amazed by the force of his own outrage.
IN THE BACK!
screamed a voice in his mind.
IN THE FUCKING BACK!
He whirled then, and the motion slid the invading steel out of him clean as you please. He barely even felt the lifeblood spritzing out through his brand-new hole as he turned to face his assailant.

But five of his life's last fifteen seconds were already over.

The guy who had stabbed him was a little weenie who was dressed like a Screamer, but that wasn't the only thing wrong about him. This was not a person who admired the fine points of rock 'n' roll; this was a person who was rotting from the inside. In those last dying seconds, his night vision was acute.

The guy who had stabbed him was no longer a person at all.

It was at that point that life began to drastically slow down: current experience and memory mingled. It was unfortunate, because it muddied his ability to deal with the last few seconds he had. Some candy he had stolen as a fifth-grader impinged on his awareness of the grasp that he laid on the lace of the bastard who was killing him, fingers curling around the wafer-thin Mylar shades . . .

. . . and he felt his hand yanking downward, but it was weirdly abstracted by the face of his mother . . .

. . . and as the Screamer's left ear sliced off and fell, he felt the blade plunge into his heart, and there were not enough endorphins in the world to muzzle that pain, so he screamed and yanked harder on the flesh and Mylar Band-Its in his hand . . .

. . . as a notch in the ridged cartilage of the Screamer's nose gave way, removing the knob at the tip as the Band-Its dropped beneath the chin . . .

. . . and the red wormy emptiness of the Screamer's sockets came clearly into view . . .

. . . and there were less than five seconds left, his heart having exploded in a burst of steel, and it was hard to believe that he was still aware of anything at all. But he glanced to the right and saw his friend Ted's screaming face, found no comfort there, felt himself helplessly vomit blood in its direction.

Then his gaze returned to the death-grip he had on the face of his murderer. His hand was yanking downward, and the flesh was giving way: peeling back like thick wet indoor/ outdoor carpeting, revealing the rancid meat and muscle beneath, exposing the greasy skull.

"EEYAAOW!" screamed the late, great Perry Dempsey.

Then time ran out for both of them, and they fell . . .

. . .
and the music shrieked
. . .

. . . as Kyle and Logan exchanged nodding glances, pulled the pins, and heaved their willie peters into opposite sections of the crowd. There was a five-second delay before the white phosphorus grenades exploded outward in a shower of thick white flaming tendrils; plenty of time for them to retreat down the ramp and blend into the masses cruising the promenade. The screams of incinerating agony blended very nicely with the general reverie . . .

. . .
and The Scream wailed on
. . .

. . . as Jake paused in mid-harangue to stare, dumbstruck with horror, at the chaos blooming at the back of the arena. All shout-fests with Jesse, all thoughts of Pete, all concern for the welfare of the band and the doomed next set were rendered suddenly, pointlessly, academic.

All that registered was the dawning, acrid memory of scorched earth, seared flesh and white-hot fire that wouldn't,
couldn't
be put out. Not until it had run its terrible, chemical course.

"
Jesus, no
," he whispered. "
No . . .
" It was too much to consider, that some lunatic had lobbed willie peters into a crowd of people. But there it was, sending out tentacles of blistering death in a dozen different directions. It was sheer insanity. It was happening. Jake felt his heart leap straight into his throat . . .

. . .
and on
. . .

. . . as Carol Macon screamed like a baby, her moussed and streaked blond hair a mass of wafting cinders, her pouty lips stretching in agony and running like tallow as the incendiary shrapnel etched charcoal fissures into the soft flesh of her face on its way to the bone. She ran blindly, clawing and stumbling up the steps, sucking in air and getting smoke and flame until the tiny air pockets deep in her lungs collapsed. And she mercifully fainted from oxygen deprivation and shock, a microsecond before her blazing corpse hit the concrete railing that marked the topmost edge of the stairs . . .

. . .
and on
. . .

. . . as Brother Paisley turned from his up-to-the-minute newscast to behold the sight of prophecies fulfilled, praise God, as there came a great weeping and gnashing of teeth and some poor sinner was quite literally cast into the lake of fire, just a little ahead of schedule . . .