Prologue

Blocks down the way, the steady pounding of the bass line was heard by disgruntled neighbors attempting to catch some sleep. Perhaps the most irritated were those who lived next door; cursing to themselves that they ever chose this house:the one with the obnoxious neighbors at their side. With every violent vibration of the window, Mr. Hausler lost one more nerve until it was too much to bare. Thrusting the covers off himself, he walked to the phone and dialed the police department; he had endured enough.

Next door, the six young boys were oblivious to the outrage they had caused; they were too enthralled in the music they were futilely attempting to collaborate on. Their knock-off brand guitars, keyboards, drums, and amps covered the small garage from wall to wall; all of which were the prize possessions of the group. All the boys played fluently for their rather young ages, but through the nicely flowing rhythms and melodies stuck out a single sour sound that eventually lead to the down fall of the current song being played.

"Jake, what's your problem?" Lee asked as he threw his drum sticks to the garage floor. "You're not following my beat."

With an uncomfortable shift beneath his guitar strap, Jake let out a small breath, "Look, I'm sorry, can we just take a short break?" The other boys let out a groan at that all-too-familiar question.

"You have got to be kidding me!" Karl laughed in disbelief as he walked the length of the garage to grab a Coke from the cooler. "This is like the fifth time in the last half hour," he pointed out, leaning against the counter, and opening his can with a pop of fizz following.

"It's not my fault," Jake began. He pulled a small stool over to his spot to sit down on, "It's just-"
"Something is up with you, man," Brent observed while adjusting the angle of his microphone, "Your sucking it up today. Even Karl is doing better than you."

"Hey," Karl retorted indignantly, "I'm getting better."

"Yeah, right," Adam laughed. He plucked idly at his bass strings, "Jake's sister can play better than you at this point."

"Shut up-"

"Hey, I.." Jake began as he slipped his fingers beneath his brown locks to rub his forehead, "I just don't feel so good."

"What's the matter?" Brent asked, coming over to the guitarist to make sure he was alright, "Ah, your probably just a little thirsty. It's hot as heck in here," he commented patting Jake's shoulder, "Ryan, toss me a bottle of water, would ya?"

Without a word, Ryan leaned back from his spot at the keyboards to grab a bottle out of the mini-refrigerator, and tossed it across the garage to Brent who caught it with ease.

"Here," Brent watched Jake chug some water before moving on, "Now let's get back to business, huh? Lee, count us off."

Jake set his water at the base of his stool as everyone got back into their positions. Lee counted them into the song, and before long the amps were back in full force, emitting music of sonic proportions.

Boom boom boom. With every rhythmic beat, a sharp pain pierced through Jake's temples. He had wished he brought some Advil with him, but figured it would subside in a few minutes. Much to his distress, however, he had no such luck. The longer the song went on the less he could comprehend, which wasonce againthrowing everyone off; he did not even hear the words of ridicule Karl shouted at him over the music for his sloppy guitar playing. Out of the blue, an emerging sense of nausea forced Jake to close his eyes in an effort to suppress all ill feelings and concentrate on what he was doing.

It was no use; what small amount of light there was in that garage erupted into an intense spot light, shooting painful rays through his eyelids. An unheard groan of misery escaped his now sweat covered lips, yet no one ceased their playing. The thriving melodies of the keyboard, and the jagged beat of the bass slowly seemed to be drifting away. Everything was fading; he thought briefly that some one had turned down the amps because only the drums were still clear in his mind. Boomboom. Boomboom. Boomboom. The drums pulsed viciously against his chest. Boomboom. Boomboom. The beat was growing faster and faster, pounding on his chest, and in his ears. In the far distance, a few voices could be heard.

"Man, is he alright?"

"Jake? Oh, crap, he's green."

"Wait. What was that?"

"What?" At that question Jake managed to open his eyes; in front of him stood the blurred image of his five friends; they appeared to be wavering from side to side. Behind them the walls had turned blue; no red; no blue. The intensity of the flashing lights forced Jake to close his eyes once more, and he gripped his chest painfully as the drums continued to pound ever faster. Boomboomboomboom.

"Guys," he tried to say, but oxygen seemed to be a bit scarce. "Guys-" he coughed out painfully.

"Cops! We've got to beat it!" Some one interrupted hastily before sounds of rushing feet filled the air.

"My parents are going to kill me!" Another voice said. A hand managed to grasp Jake's arm and pull him from the stoolit was no useJake felt himself collapse limply onto the floor before everything went black.