Brain Dead Blues Page 4

  “Here's forty-seven euros, twenty-three cent. Will you play it, just once more, for that?”

  Frank laughed and shook his head. “My Bill will play it all you like once it's released, but you won't care by then, because you'll already own it on your computer-majig, so you can listen to it whenever you please. But just out of interest before we go, how much would you be willing to pay for this new single?”

  “I'd give my life.” The man who spoke stood easily over six-feet tall, wearing an old tartan shirt and sporting a very thick beard. “My house. My jeep. My own children. You name it, I'll pay it.”

  When the others agreed, Bill nearly passed out. He couldn't believe their words. He had known the song held some sort of power over people, but he had no idea how bad it would be until that moment. He'd thought, maybe, they would love it so much that they'd offer to buy it right then and there, or perhaps pre-order the album, forcing Packman Records to go into second pressing immediately.

  He had thought they'd love it like no other song they'd ever heard, but he never thought they'd go insane.

  “Yes, you did,” Frank whispered. “You felt it, and it got you giddy, remember? Don't lie to yourself, Bill Jennings. It's not attractive. They're going to worship you again, just like you wanted. You knew this would happen from the beginning. They'll be back, like never before, in their millions.”

  The long-haired man asked, “What's the name of this new song?”

  “I don't know,” Frank said, squinting one eye. “Fuck it, call it Brain Dead Blues.”

  With that, Frank started forward, pushing people aside. They parted like the Red Sea as Bill climbed from his stool with quivering legs. He clutched the bar to stay upright, his knees nearly buckling, and he studied the faces before him.

  “I love you, Bill Jennings,” a man spoke. He looked to be in his sixties, his wife hanging on his arm. The wife cried, smiling at Bill. “Me too,” she said. “I love you, too.”

  “I love him more.” This came from the large bearded man. His face grew red. “Don't you dare touch him, none of you! I love him more!”

  “Okay, folks.” Bill's voice sounded far away to his own ears. “I'll see you all at the next show, and we'll get this new single online tomorrow, that's a promise.”

  One man jumped from foot to foot, squeezing his groin as if it pained. “I just can't fucking wait, man!” Spittle flew from his lips. “Be careful, all right? Don't let anything happen to you before tomorrow. If you die before finishing that song, the fucking world will end. There would be no reason to live! For anybody!”

  “Don't die, Bill! Please, don't die!”

  Bill assured the crowd that he wouldn't as he pushed his way to the front door. Every shoulder he brushed off, every arm or leg, made his skin crawl. Then someone said something that made him pause.

  “Did you just threaten Bill Jennings?”

  It was the large, bearded man again, and he was snaking his way towards the crotch-squeezer.

  “Why in god's name would I threaten him? I love him!”

  “Not like I do!”

  The bearded man threw a punch so hard that the crotch-squeezer didn't have time to react. It sounded like a baseball bat smacking steak. The crotch-squeezer went down immediately. Then all hell broke loose.

  Bill tried to force his way out door as the fight began. A woman smashed against him, pushed, and they both sprawled to the floor. His ankle got caught beneath her and he struggled to pull it free. Pain crept through his leg. He heard his name called over the screams and smacks, and then Frank appeared.

  “Still wasting time here? We need to get going, Bill. Stop fooling around. Not getting any younger.”

  Frank reached out and Bill took his dry, calloused hand. With a grunt, Frank pulled him to his feet and held open the front door. “Come on, now, dude. Let's make a move.”

  A winded gasp could be heard as one man gut-punched another. The victim doubled over and fell about. Bill jumped to the side to avoid him but wasn't quick enough. His face smacked the wall. Pain blossomed immediately and he cursed, rubbing the spot.

  “You hurt Bill Jennings, you stupid sonofabitch!”

  A woman scuttled towards the doubled-over man with a pint glass held above her head. Bill got out the door just before he heard the smash. Nobody came after him. Nobody called out. The whole crowd was far too busy drawing blood to even notice he'd left.

  “Come on,” Frank said. He lit a cigarette, a smile on his face. “Get in the taxi. We're going back to your place this time.”

  ¨¨¨

  Bill and Frank made it to Elliot's Bed and Breakfast just after midnight. No lights were on in the main house, letting Bill know that Elliot wasn't home. Still at the meeting in Dublin, He thought. Good.

  “My cabin's around back,” he said. “Come on.”

  Bill led the way around the house, the freezing night air chilling his face. He shivered, pulling his jacket tighter around him.

  “Down here,” he said. “Nice little place.”

  “And it's all in there? The recording equipment?”

  “All there, and all set up, ready to go.”

  “Good.”

  Bill removed the keys from his pocket and opened the door. When he stepped inside, he shuddered at the change in temperature. Frank followed him and closed the door behind.

  “Cosy in here,” Frank said. “Real nice digs, man.”

  “Does well enough for my needs. Come on, here's the set up.”

  Bill led the way to the other side of the cabin where the laptop and mixing console sat. He tapped the laptop keys, waking the monitor and recording program.

  “Digital recording software,” he said. “Been a long time since I saw some tape used in a studio. In fact, it's been a while since I saw a proper studio, at all. Last album I did was a DIY job just like this, and in all honesty, the thing sounded just as good as or better than any big budget studio I ever used.”

  “You talking to stall, man?”

  “Probably.”

  Bill swallowed. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't nervous, but he was sure Frank already knew that. Running a hand through his hair, he sighed. “Look, Frank, what happened back there?”

  “You know exactly what happened.”

  “I know that I played the new song we wrote, but after that, I don't.”

  “You do, Bill. Don't lie to me, man, don't even think you can.”

  Bill stayed quiet, waiting for Frank to explain.

  “You knew exactly what you were dealing with. You knew the power it possessed because you could feel it. I could see it in your eyes when you played, man. You could see the effect it was having on them, how they squirmed in their seats, how their eyes glazed over like they were in a trance. You knew. And you liked it.”

  Bill didn't even hesitate. “I did,” he said.

  “We have the power to make something incredible out of you. A God, Bill Jennings. A mother-fucking God. But we need to work fast, because those crazies are going to be getting restless. And then they're going to come looking for you. Some might get depressed and end their lives from withdrawal, already, but the others? The ones with their brains melted and rage on their minds? Who knows.”

  “They might try and find me?”

  “Wouldn't you, man? You saw exactly what's happening to them. Their brains are frying like eggs, and it's driving them crazy! You're the only thing that they can think of, and the idea of that song to them is like the idea of the last smack in the world to a junkie. They'll be sniffing about for it, soon, so stop fucking around. Let's get this recorded and make history.”

  The note, slid beneath the cabin door almost three hours later, went unnoticed.

  To Bill, the process felt less like a recording than it did a documentation. They never touched the first song they'd written. Frank said they had much bigger matters to tend to. Instead, they worked on the second song. The important piece.

  The procedure went like this: Frank would call out a phrase
and tell Bill the melody, line by line. Bill would play it, and once Frank was satisfied that Bill had it absolutely perfect, they'd hit the red button. Bill would play it twice, then they'd listen back and pick the best take. They'd dragged that take to a master track on the recording interface and then start with the next line. They never recorded two lines in a row, and Frank was very stern about that. He said they couldn't play the arrangement from start to finish until the time came. He never said when that would be, only that Bill would know.

  Each time Bill got a line right, he felt nauseous. Something about the melody got under his skin, wriggled about like a maggot, infecting him. He vomited three times. Twice, he stopped playing to dry-heave, but after some water, he could continue. Each time it happened, Frank laughed so hard that his face reddened.

  Five hours passed before they finished. The entire song, Bill counted, clocked in at one-minute and seven seconds. And now, with the sun beginning to rise, he strolled to the window and looked out at the garden, bathing in twilight. He faintly heard early birds, tweeting their morning song. The plants were mildewed and still.

  “That's it,” Frank said, his voice harsh and raspy. “It's done.”

  Bill yawned and scratched his face. His eyes stung from lack of sleep. “What have we done exactly, Frank?”

  “You're damn excited about this, aren't you? I can see it in your eyes. No, don't worry, you've got every reason to be, because this is the big one, man. This track is going to blow people away.” Frank's eyes suddenly widened. “Well, well, what have we got here?”

  Bill watched as Frank bent slowly, coming back up with a piece of paper in his hand and a smile on his face. “They've found us,” he said, shaking the note.

  “Who?”

  Frank read the note like a love letter from a secret admirer. He chuckled and snorted, pointing out sentences that gave him a tickle. Bill turned cold with each word. When he was finished reading it, Frank wiped at his eyes and tried to catch his breath.

  “Somebody came here?” Bill asked. He worried he might pass out. “They're going to kill themselves? Because of me?”

  “Oh, Billy-boy. You didn't mind when they were busting each other up back at the bar for you, so why worry now?”

  “I did mind, of course—”

  Frank interrupted him by raising a hand. “Stop. Now you're insulting me. One more lie out of you and I'll show you things that would make your brain seep out your ears like stew.”

  Bill didn't doubt that for a moment. Everything Frank had said so far, no matter how bizarre or surreal, had been the truth. Bill had seen too much to question it.

  The cabin door creaked open.

  “Hey, I saw the lights on, you guys working on something?” Wayne Truman stepped inside. He wore a nightgown and his hair stood up at crazy angles from sleep. He had on a pair of glasses, and stubble darkened his cheeks. “What's going on?” He asked.

  “Wayne? I thought you were at the meeting with Elliot?” Bill said.

  Wayne smiled. “It's six in the morning, man. Meetings don't usually last half a day.”

  Frank arched his eyebrows at Bill before turning to Wayne. “You boys have got a hit on your hands with this one, son, believe me. Why don't we go talk business and leave ol' Bill here to catch some rest, huh?”

  Wayne smiled politely. “Um, sure. Just… Who are you?”

  “I'm Bill Jennings' new manager and co-writer, and I'm pleased to meet you. Hope you guessed my name.”

  With that, Frank clicked his fingers and Wayne fell still. The smile slid from the man's face as his shoulders drooped, looking like a bad magician's trick. But deep down, Bill knew this wasn't a trick.

  “I'm going to take ol' Wayne here back to the house, and you're going to get some sleep, hear me?”

  Bill nodded, speechless.

  “Hey, hey… How you holding up, dude?”

  “Someone's about to kill themselves because of me… We have to stop them, don't we?”

  “You know you have absolutely no intention of doing that. And believe me, by the time this song gets aired, many, many more people will have died. They'll be the lucky ones. But you already know that, because you can feel it. And you're not going to try and stop it, are you?”

  Bill's mind slopped like a soupy mess. He couldn't collect his thoughts, no matter how hard he tried. “I guess not…”

  “You guess right.” Frank smiled then, his face a frightening mask in the cold light of dawn. “You did good work, Bill. Be proud. I'm going to leave now, you understand? And you're going to catch a nod.”

  “Okay, I guess I'll—”

  His eyelids began to droop, heavy as lead. His vision blurred and doubled, and he struggled to fight it. “Frank, I can't keep my…”

  Where Frank should have been, a figure stood— a figure not entirely human. A large mass of wriggling bits and eyes slopped from former arms and legs, and Bill screamed. Then the world turned black.

  ¨¨¨

  “So that song is on the laptop right now?” Elliot asked. He needed to sit down, but he couldn't move. His chest felt constricted and he wanted his inhaler, but something kept him rooted to the spot.

  “It's right there, Elliot. And it's calling me.”

  “Why? Why would you play it? There's people dead because of this! How could you do such a thing?”

  “Because I want people to listen!” Bill slammed his hands down and stood, stalking towards Elliot. “There's no power in the world that could help me resist what that man was offering. None! People have forgotten the true value of music, and I'm here to remind them. I'm here to give it to them like they've never had it before.”

  “Bill. Back away.”

  For the briefest instant, Elliot caught sight of something in Bill's expression. He thought it might've been remorse, but it disappeared too soon to tell.

  “I think they'll be here soon.” Bill said, nodding towards the door.

  “Who?”

  “The crazies… They're hunting me like a pack of wolves. I dreamed about it. Their brains are melted into a stew. One even has a chainsaw, I saw it. They want me. They want this song.”

  “You're really frightening me. I'm serious, I'm fucking terrified right now.”

  “Me too, kid… But isn't it a good kind of fear? Like a rush or something?”

  Elliot shook his head, still unable to move.

  “Come on, it is. These crazies will come, foaming at the fucking mouth for this track, and they'll stop at nothing for it, and I'm going to play it to them when they arrive. They're my fans, forever. Unconditionally. My music's all they live for. And isn't that all anybody could ever want? To be recognized as a true artist, for people to get what they do?”

  “But you're already a recognized artist, Bill. You had your moment in the spotlight back when Two Smoking Barrels were big. Even now, you've got enough of a following to make a comfortable living out of this new album, and with sales and tour dates, isn't that enough?”

  “You don't walk in Heaven just to return to Earth, kid. I'm special. My music is the reason for these people's existence, and you want me to just live comfortably?” Bill's face fell. “I'm a God, Elliot.”

  “You didn't even write that song… Frank told you what to do.”

  “You little sonofabitch—”

  Bill came fast, but Elliot moved quicker. He darted to the right just as Bill's fist cracked the cabin wall. Stumbling back, Bill glared at him, cradling his hand. His voice bellowed throughout the room. “This is my song! This is my legacy! And-”

  He paused then, looking out the cabin window. A smile spread across his face. Elliot got chills.

  “And these are my people,” he said.

  Elliot rushed to the window beside him, wiping condensation from the glass. Outside, darkness stretched in all directions, the only light source coming from the house. And in that light…

  Elliot watched as three figures stalked across the back lawn while more shuffled around the side of the house.
Their mouths hung open stupidly, and they lurched as if they'd been in an accident. Elliot supposed they had, in a way. Their brains had fried.

  Bill's vision had come true. One of them carried a chainsaw.

  Elliot found it hard to breathe. His knuckles turned white from gripping the windowsill. His eyes wouldn't move from the figure with the saw. He dragged it like a dead carcass, the blade leaving a gash in the earth. “Why have they got weapons, Bill?” Elliot asked.

  “Because they can't exactly chance somebody getting in the way of them hearing my song, can they?”

  Bill watched as five more people rounded the house. Three women and two men. One of the women carried a garden rake, another a knife, and the third held a hand trowel. The man in front had a large rock that came to a frighteningly sharp tip. The second held what looked to be an iron.

  Elliot nearly burst into hysterics right then and there but managed to hold back. He couldn't take it. An iron? His brain wouldn't register the sight out the window as reality.

  “That man has an iron,” he said. “Would you look at that.”

  Bill chuckled. “He sure does… He sure does.”

  Pushing himself from the window ledge, Bill smiled to Elliot.

  “Out of my way, kid. I need to get to the laptop. It's not very polite to be unprepared when guests arrive. And as you can see, they're almost here.”

  “They're going to kill me, aren't they?”

  “Why would they do that? Unless you plan on getting in their way, that is?”

  “I don't want to hear that song, Bill. I don't want to become one of them.”

  Bill shook his head. “It won't make you one of them. From what I saw in my dream, this track will do things much more powerful than you or I could ever imagine. Something much different to brain melting. So, please, step aside. And don't be rude to my guests. They've come a long way. Besides, you were a fan first, weren't you? Aren't you curious to hear the new single?”

  Elliot wanted to punch Bill, wanted to knock him out. But he didn't. Terror had left him a quivering mess, and, instead, he stood aside.