CHAPTER NINE

-2D-

I loved working at dad's carnival. Being a money collector is a pretty easy job, and I could oogle all the girls that came through the line. (You might wonder how many oogle-worthy girls would show up at the carnival without a guy in tow, but let me tell you: you'd be surprised. There were always a few that were very easy on the eyes. Give them a couple of free spins on the Waltzer here, an extra go on the Switchback there and they would be all over you.) After work I could always look forward to cruising around town with Shane Lynch. If we'd worked things just right a handful of the girls we'd met that day at the carnival would come with us.

The only time working there wasn't so great was when it rained. Nobody goes to the carnival when it rains, least of all unattached girls looking for fun. I can't say I blame them. The dusty ground turns into a big, muddy mess, your candy floss goes all soggy, and no matter where you go you're going to end up cold, soaked, and shivering.

I didn't have to work too many rainy days, but the ones I did were pretty nasty. I didn't think I could be any colder or more miserable than when I was stuck standing in front of the Switchback ride stomping my feet to keep the feeling in them and my hands so numb I could barely take the money from the few people crazy enough to go to a carnival in such awful weather. Boy was I wrong.

The first thing I remember after I passed out in the freezer is waking up under a pile of blankets. I don't remember how I got there. Not exactly, anyway. I do remember a lot of yelling, some running footsteps, and a big zombie song and dance number, but that's all so hazy I can't tell what happened and what didn't. I've tried asking Murdoc about it, but every time I mention the zombie cabaret he gives me one of his "you're-an-idiot-and-you're-pissing-me-off-with-your-stupidness" looks. Maybe I should try asking Russel or Noodle instead.

I know that the pile of blankets happened, though. I remember because when I woke up my body felt cold. Bone marrow-searing, blood turned to cherry slush, oh my God where did my hands and feet go cold. My body was shaking like crazy and my teeth were chattering so hard my jaw hurt. I wanted to stop shaking, but the harder I tried the worse it seemed to get. I couldn't even get my hands steady enough to pull the blankets tighter around myself. All I could do was lay there trying to catch my breath as my body flopped around like a dying fish. It was enough to make me wonder where the fisherman who would bash me over the head with a mallet to put me out of my misery had got to. From the massive migraine that was tearing apart the inside of my head, I was pretty sure he'd been by at least once already.

I was still lying there doing my dying fish impression when I heard the door open. Until then, I hadn't really thought about who or what might be lurking around outside my little blanket cocoon. I guess that was pretty stupid of me. I mean, that would probably be one of the first things to come into your head if you woke up in a bed that wasn't yours with no memory of how or when you got there, right? Don't worry, though. When I heard that door creak open, I spent a couple of heart-hammering seconds having a healthy panic attack as I considered all the unpleasant possibilities: A zombie. A troupe of zombies. A troupe of zombies about to perform Zombie Cabaret, part 2. Another social worker with a positive paternity test. The man who pushed me into the freezer…. I probably don't have to tell you how relieved I was when I realized it was just Russel and Murdoc, talking in half-whispers.

"Jesus, Muds," Russel was saying. "What the hell did that guy do?"

"What the hell does it look like?" Murdoc growled back. There was a bit of a pause, and then he groaned and hissed, "Damn it, Russel, I'm not one of your taxidermy projects; that hurts!"

"Sorry, man." Another pause. Then: "Do you know where Noodle went?"

"I thought she was with you."

They both went quiet again after that. For a while the only sound I could hear was somebody sucking in little gasps of air like they were hurt. Then Russel said, "OK. Hold that towel on there tight. I want to check on D."

I was still shaking and freezing cold, so my brain was only about halfway through processing what Russel had said when the blankets were pulled away from my face and I was looking at him face to face. He was so close I could smell his breath as he muttered, "How're you doing over here, D?" (It smelled like an old chocolate shake.)

My lips and tongue felt thick and stupid, like they'd been numbed up with too much Novocain. I had to fight to chatter out, "R—Ru-usss?"

His eyebrows shot up about three inches. "You woke up." I don't know whether he sounded more surprised or relieved. Either way, I didn't see what he was so excited about. Waking up is something I do every day. Sometimes I even do it more than once like when I doze off while I'm watching the television. Or when I'm eating breakfast. Or in the middle of a recording session.

I tried to say "Is Murdoc hurt?" but my mouth kept tripping over the words and it came out sounding like: "Izz..z…M-Muh…Mrrd-do..ck…."

"Yeah, D. Murdoc's here, too." He frowned when he noticed me trying to wiggle into a sitting position and added, "Don't try to get up yet. Just stay under the covers and get warm, OK?"

I flopped back down onto the bed and managed a sluggish "Mmm…."

Russel backed out of my face and a couple of seconds later, he was talking with Murdoc again. At first I tried to listen to what they were saying. They sounded worried, and usually if they're worried about something that means that I should be worried about it, too—but they were being so quiet I couldn't hear what they were saying and after a while I got tired of trying to pick out what they were talking about. I was so cold and my head hurt so bad and I was so, so tired. All I wanted to do was roll over and go back to sleep. Go back to where it wasn't so cold. Go back to where my head didn't hurt so much. But no. The second I closed my eyes there was this bright light shining in my face that wouldn't go away.

For a while I just laid there with my eyes closed, trying to pretend that I didn't notice the light because to tell you the truth, it kind of sort of scared the everloving bejesus out of me. I couldn't stop thinking about how they say you see a bright light right before you die, and this was a white, eye-searing light; the sort that makes the dark behind your eyelids go all orangey-red. The longer I laid there the more sure I was that it was a "dead and going to heaven" light as opposed to a "somebody's shining a flashlight in my face" light or even a "somebody who is probably Murdoc is playing a very mean joke on me" light. I figured the longer I kept my eyes closed the longer I could put off collecting my prize for being right. Because being dead is a pretty crappy prize.

I wasn't dead or about to be dead when I finally did open my eyes, though. Instead I was looking at a kid who was glowing so bright it hurt to look at him. Even though I couldn't see his face, I figured it had to be Taro-kun. I mean, how many kids could there possibly be out there who can light up like a firefly?

I wanted to ask him to please turn the light down because it was making my migraine do terrible, terrible things, but my mouth still felt like it was a billion miles away from my brain. I settled with squeezing my eyes shut instead. He seemed to get the hint. When I opened my eyes again he was back to that pale yellowish-green glow that made me think of those glow in the dark starts kids put up on their ceilings.

Now that I didn't have a stadium light shining in my face, I could see that Taro-kun was sitting cross-legged beside me on the bed, just peering down at me looking nervous. When he noticed I'd opened my eyes again, he gave me his "follow me" look. Then he got up and jumped down off the bed.

I didn't want to move. It was cold. The covers were warm. I was tired and the bed was so nice. I didn't even have the energy to try and explain any of that to him. The best I could do was a tired little groan that made me feel like I was back in primary school again mumbling, "Just two more minutes, mum. Just two more…."

That had almost always worked on my mum. It didn't work on Taro-kun, though. A couple of seconds later he was back, staring down at me with his eyes wide and panicky and his lip puckered like he was trying not to cry. It was the most devastating sad puppy face I'd ever seen. (Really, I bet even Murdoc would have had trouble saying no to that face.) It was more than enough to convince me that even though I was cold and tired and my head felt all mucked up, I had to at least try to follow him when he jumped down off the bed again.

I took a deep breath, pulled together energy from I-don't-know-where, and managed to roll my shaking body once, twice, and CLUNK—right off the side of the bed. I landed on top of a big pile of takeout containers. My first thought was Huh. Guess that means we're in Russel's room then. My next thought was I really hope those were all empty. (I could stand being cold and tired and having a headache, but stinking like crusty old curry and Chinese food wasn't going to make that particular situation any better. Actually, I don't know if stinking like moldy takeout could make any situation better.) Then, as a nice little afterthought, I mumbled, "Ow."

I spent a few seconds laying there in my pile of broken bits of Styrofoam watching all the lovely little stars that the fall had sent zinging through my head. Murdoc and Russel didn't seem to notice my troubles. They were still whispering away in that same tense, something-really-bad-is-happening tone. I laid there listening to their voices buzz around in my head until I got my bearings. Then I rolled onto my stomach and kicked my legs out of the mess of blankets I'd dragged off the bed behind me.

I could see Taro-kun standing two, three steps ahead of me, waiting for me to get up and follow him. It took everything I had just to get my arms and legs to cooperate enough for me to drag myself along the ground, and even then my legs didn't want to push, my arms didn't want to pull, and I had to stop and rest every couple of feet. Taro-kun didn't seem too happy with my slow as a slug pace. He kept bouncing on his feet in front of me as if to say, "Hurry up, hurry up!" He looked very relieved when we finally went through the beaded curtain that led to Russel's Xbox room.

At first I couldn't figure out why he'd been so dead-set on leading me in there. I thought maybe he wanted to play some video games and how if that was the case I could show him a couple of wicked Halo cheats if my hands ever stopped shaking enough for me to hold the controller. He didn't make a move towards the Xbox, though. That got me thinking that maybe he was more of a Pong man and if that was the case, I'd have to remember to show him my mega widescreen game someday if I ever—a low, threatening voice broke through my happy little video game fantasy: "Where's your friend with the pretty blue hair?"

It's funny how mortal terror can make you forget things like being cold or tired. Even the brain-bending migraine that had been making me suffer two seconds before didn't matter anymore because I knew that voce. I'd only heard it once, but I knew that voice. It was the man who Taro-kun was afraid of. The man who pushed me into the freezer. The Bad Man. Oh God he was out there—right out there and looking for me.

I heard Russel say, "He's not here." He sounded nervous. Scared. That made me nervous and scared, too.

"I think you misunderstand me." The man's voice went about ten shades creepier as he slowly repeated, "Where the fuck is your friend with the lovely blue hair?"

"Hold on now," said Russel. "You don't want to do that. Just—"

"Where the fuck did you take him?"

"He was right there!" Murdoc shouted. His voice was a high-pitched whine that would have been really funny under just about any other circumstances. "Swear to Satan!"

That was when the gunshot went off. Have you ever heard a real gunshot go off in the room right next to you? I hadn't. I hadn't ever even heard a real gunshot before that, period. It was much louder than I'd ever expected it to be. If I'd have had the strength, I would have jumped and let out a nice, manly shriek. When my ears quit ringing I heard the tail end of a scream. Somebody—Russel. I knew it was Russel—was moaning.

"Where's he at?" screamed the Bad Man.

"We don't know!" Murdoc screamed back. "Fucking hell!"

There was a long, thick stretch where nobody said anything. If it hadn't been for Russel's gasping, I would have thought they'd left. Then, finally, the man said, "Get walking."

Murdoc let out a strangled laugh that made him sound like a nervous horse with lung disease. "How the fuck do you propose we do that?"

Another gut-twisting, bongo drum heart-busting stretch of silence. Then: "Get walking or I'll put a bullet through your fat friend's other kneecap. And then I'll put one right through your brains."

I have to do something, I thought. Stupidly. Hysterically. I have to do something. I tried to jump up to do I-don't-know-what to help, but I couldn't even get up off the ground and my body was still shaking and I couldn't even pull together enough strength to shout out "I'm in here; leave them alone!" (I don't know if I'd have had the guts to do that even if I'd been able to. I like to think I would have, though.)

Out in the main part of the room, I heard Murdoc say, "Come on, Russ. Let's go." A few seconds later, I heard a bitten-off scream that made my throat clog up with the kind of fear that makes a sour taste come up into your mouth. I'd never heard Russel scream like that. I'd never heard anybody scream like that. It was nothing like the way people scream in horror films. Compared to the sound that had come out of Russel, people in horror films might as well be singing Ave Maria. I head a door open, heard lots of shuffling, stumbling footsteps, and then the door closed. The room was quiet after that.

I laid on the ground limp as an old, worn-out sock because I was alone and Murdoc and Russel were hurt and I didn't know what to do and holy shit the man had a gun and he was looking for me—and then I remembered my cell phone. It was still in the kitchen. It had to still be in the kitchen. The kitchen wasn't far from Russel's room. If I could make it there—if I could just make it there and phone for help….

I looked to Taro-kun to say thank you for helping me hide (or as much of that as I could push past my frozen mouth and chattering teeth), but he was already gone. Next time I see him I'll invite him to play Pong, I decided. Then I started off, half dragging, half crawling my way towards the kitchen.

-Murdoc-

That bastard tied us up. Or, to be more specific: that bastard took us to my café in my studio and cuffed me and Russel down to the booths in there with two sets of silk-lined handcuffs from my Winnebago. I wanted to give him a kick in the arse. Scratch that; I wanted to rip that gun out of his grubby paws and shove it up his arse and then give him the above-mentioned kick to the derriere. I mean, honestly. What kind of a person breaks into your recording studio, stabs you in the back, tries to turn your lead vocalist into Iceman, shoots your drummer, and then has the nerve to break into your innermost sanctuary and use your own lady-pleasing tools against you? A knob, that's who. A complete and total knob.

I was so angry I was seeing red. Everywhere I looked—red. Most of it was blood. My blood, slicking down my back and puddling on the café floor. Russel's blood pouring out his ruined kneecap and running down the side of his booth. (Sweet Satan the cleaning lady was going to pitch a fit and demand we double her pay, the ungrateful old hag.)

The knobhead left us there with an overblown promise that he'd "be back after he took care of the other two." (I kid you not, those were the son of a bitch's precise words. Just how many poorly-made bang bang shoot 'em up movies had he watched before he went crazy in the head?)

Once he was gone, I wasted a good five minutes banging those handcuffs against the table, pulling at the catch, and trying to slip my hand out. (Of course none of that worked. Those were high-quality little toys. I'd had them custom-made when the band first hit it big in order to be ready for all the nights of—ahem—fine entertaining I was sure to be doing now that the world had recognized my supernatural talent, good looks, and charisma.)

It took the piss out of my sails once I realized that the handcuffs were going to do what they were meant to do and hold no matter how much abuse I heaped on them. I decided then to turn to my last hope for getting out of that face alive and relatively in one piece. Clearing my throat, I croaked, "Russ. Hey, Russ!" (I admit, Russel may not be as good as Noodle for such circumstances, but he was miles better than a certain blue-haired idiot whose only suggestion would have been something like "Ooooh! Murdoc, let's sing Row, Row, Row Your Boat in a round!")

Russel didn't answer. In fact, Russel hadn't said anything coherent since he'd had his kneecap blown out. That was a bit worrisome.

I stretched my legs as far as they would go and managed to strike up a nice, loud percussion line to the side of the booth he was stuck in: THUMPA-THUMP! THUMP, THUMP, THUMPA-THUMP! I kept kicking his booth until the hole in my side puked out a fresh slick of steamy-hot blood. Then I clutched my hands over the wound and shouted, "Russ! Damn it, fats, answer me!"

He answered, all right. Mumbled some rubbish about the Grim Reaper and started whimpering out the names of all his dead friends. He sounded like some old geezer having a war flashback. Clearly, he was not going to provide me with a lick of help. (Disappointing, that. I'd been convinced that if anybody could break those handcuffs by force, it was our resident tub of lard with fists the size of hams. Failing that, I'd been sure that he would be able to tear the table out of the wall.) I was on my own—and it soon became apparent that not only was I on my own; I was fading fast.

Even with my hand clamped over it, the wound was pouring out a steady stream of the old red stuff. I also had a sneaking suspicion that I'd managed to tear something important during that last bit of kicking around. The puddle of blood I was lying in had grown to a frankly alarming size, and there was a coppery taste in my mouth that hadn't been there before. I probably would have found those developments upsetting if I'd have been in my right mind. Lying there handcuffed to a table and bleeding out on the floor, it just made me tired.

I let my head flop back and decided that I would close my eyes for just a few seconds. Just long enough to catch up on a little beauty sleep. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the last thing I can recall before my memory turns into a big...dark…blur…of…nothing….

Author's Notes:

Well, there you have it; chapter nine, hot off the presses! We're getting near the end here, folks, so a LOT is going to happen next chapter. Don't say I didn't warn you (haha). Thank you to everybody who's kept with this story reading, reviewing, favoriting, and alerting. It's been so encouraging to get so much feedback from you guys!

Next chapter: The End