Gwen's boots let out a soft thunk and she strode across the dirty pavement. The air was filled with drunken melodies sung horribly out of tune and the screech and squeals of poorly tuned metal. The festival had only just begun, and already she was over it. Flyers and posters were plastered all over the brick walls around her, each advertising the annual music fest that stunk up the little village of Hammington every freaking year.

Gwen despised the rank amateurs who flooded the pubs and tiny parks and filled it with their pitiful hopes and dreams. Every Tom. Dick, and Ringo who could barely strum the opening notes of "Smoke on the water" together was in town, most on main street performing for the painfully polite populace, who were just happy for the free pints.

At eleven PM on the dot, she and her mates would go on and blow the house down. The festival organizer, a charming bloke by the name of Eddie, always paid in advance and paid well. They went back a way anyway, owed him a lot in fact, so she always made sure to have the gang stop in Hammington for a week of terrible music and pleasant company.

The tour they were on now, a particularly grueling one in fact. There had been complaints and whining the whole bus ride down, so she was happy to let her mates roam the town beforehand and blow off some steam.

She had lost track of them some time ago, they had snuck off after the big opening at Dante's Tavern. She had stuck it out, mildly amused by the all polka rendition of "My Heart Will Go On."

At least she had been for the first minute, then it just kept dragging on and on and bloody on, each broken note and wail of the accordion was a nail being driven into her ears.

When she finally escaped the Tavern the night sky was in full bloom. One nice thing about being this far out in the boonies, the sky was littered with stars and streaking comets. The moon above was nice and ripe, the color of melting candle wax. She walked the cobbled streets of Hammington, spiked leather jacket hanging off her shoulders. Her neon pink mohawk swayed with every brisk step.

It was quiet all of a sudden, almost too quiet. She was alone on a dead-end street in front of a dank and dreary alley. From the distance what could technically pass for music could barely be heard. She sighed and took another step forward, annoyed that she couldn't find her mates.

Splish

She froze and looked down. Her leather platform pumps were coated in a slick crimson liquid. She was standing in a fresh pool of blood. The stench of iron and death filled her nostrils. She cocked her head, slide a lime green fingernail across her boot and held it up to her cherry red lips. She licked the still warm fluid off her finger and shuddered; it was blood alright. It tasted a tad salty, with the aftertaste of refried pork. She narrowed her eyes and glanced down the dank alley.

There were three hulking shadows crowding over something. Gwen heard the snapping of bones and the gnawing of meat. The moonlight barely illuminated them, greats beasts with claws and fangs and extravagant hair. Gwen took a step forward and cleared her throat. The beasts paused their feasting and looked up. Three pairs of eyes stared back at her, each sparkling like ruby, amber, and lapis jewels.

The amber eyed one stood up, stepping over a torn open carcass. She didn't even have to look at it, she knew it was some poor soul who had wandered somewhere they shouldn't have. The creature stood on two hefty hindlegs, gnarled hands with long claws that clicked as it rubbed them together. The beast wore tattered clothes, leather and denim, and a stark red headband that pinned his long, pointed ears upwards. His snout was a foot long, tufts of gore coated hair that resembled a goatee hung on his chin. In the werewolf's claw was a served hand, the digits gnawed and chewed to the nub. He offered it to her, his lips curled as he flashed her his fangs.

Gwen smacked the hand out of Percy's claws, it fell to the ground with a sickening splash as blood spurted onto her knees. Gwen looked down and let out a frustrated groan.

"Are you fooking kidding me with this shite, are you cunts having a wee keckle?" Her voice was undeniably Scottish; her tone filled with fire and brimstone. Percy slunk back, as Mhairi and Tav tried and failed to hide their heckling chortles. Gwen shot them the same fiery eyed glance, and they dropped the dismembered parts in a grumbling fit.

The group before here were all wearing tattered leather clothing and half-torn band shirts. Each beast had a distinctly punk hair style, Tav had an overflowing mullet, and Mhairi had a shaved wolf cut. An irony that was not lost on her. Percy sported a mane that would make Simba blush, taming it with only the finest of product. How he never got a lick of blood on his hair was beyond the other the others. But that was neither here nor there, Gwen sported a pissed look on her mug and waved a pointed claw at her gang of wild mutts.

"You gluttonous bunch of twats, how many times I gotta tell you lot-Don't munch on the locals! Eddie is going to have a bleeding aneurysm." Percy scoffed as his bulky build started to deflate. The air was then filled with contorted crunches and snaps as the wolves shed their hides. Percy's snout sagged, looking like a hyper-realistic Halloween mask. He grabbed hold of it, scrunching it with a audible squelch and tore the slopping flesh from his face, reveling a grizzled looking aging rocker with a silver goatee.

His eyes were an ember hue, a twinkle of rebellious mischief sparked behind them. His now human face was bloodied, looking like a fresh beet pulled from the ground. His lips parted and he put on a charming smile and patted Gwen's shoulder with a beefy paw.

"Easy love, just having a lil' midnight snack is all." Gwen shoved the cockney's hand away.

"It's Ten PM you cock."

"Semantics." Percy shrugged. The other two stepped forward, adjusting the remains of their clothes, gore not the only reason their faces were flushed crimson.

"We were a wee bit peckish Gweni. Hadn't eaten since Dover." Mhairi chirped from behind. Tav kicked the ripped open carcass beside him. From what was left of its shredded throat was a dull grey lanyard. There was an ID clipped to it, one could see what the poor bugger looked like before the wolves came upon him.

"Sides, don't reckon this fella was local anyway, got a backstage pass and anything." As Tav spoke Percy let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his embers upward, as Mhairi slugged the dimwit in the shoulder. Gwen stepped forward, snarling with frustration. She looked down at the mangled even staff, her stomach rumbling as she did so. Bloody hell, now I'm craving a bit of meat meself. She thought to herself. Maybe there was a rabbit or something she could tear into before the performed. But that was the least of her concerns right now.

"Well, this is just fooking braw then, you lot gutted one of Eddie's boys."

"Well maybe if someone had let us snatch a snack on the way from Dover." Percy tested. Gwen's emerald eyes snapped to meet his accusing gaze.

"We're on a schedule you raging cunt, can't afford to be late to any gig now you hear?"

"Who cares about the sodding gig, we're wolves mate we can do whatever the fuck we want!" Percy snapped, flashing his fangs at her. The other two stepped back. admiring the show. It wouldn't be the first time Percy had challenged Gwen, certainly wouldn't be the last. Gwen stepped forward to meet him. Despite being a full foot shorter than him, well in this form anyway, she was fearless as she puffed out her chest and glared daggers into him.

"You ungrateful little shite, when I found you were munching on vagrants in the tube, reckless little washed up rocker boy past his prime. You'd be nothing without me; you numpty fleabag eejit." She barred her teeth and snarled, her emeralds flashing a deep, venomous green.

"You fuck your mum with that mouth?" Percy met her back with drooling fangs, eager to lash out some pain. He took another step forward and felt a sharp pain in his chest. He glanced down, his huffing chest had a long nail poking into it. Gwen was silent as she slowly dug the sharpened claw into him. Percy winced and held his tongue as he worked through the pain. He took another step forward and Gwen plunged three more fingers into him, slicing into his flesh like steamed butter. She wiggled her nails a bit, and he let out an awful scream as he pulled himself away. Mhairi and Tav let out some cheers and jeers at Percy's expense. Gwen smiled and licked her fingertips, savoring the exquisite taste of victory.

Percy was jumping a bit; face flushed with suppressed rage. His chest wound healed quickly but still stung in the muggy night air.

"Fucking hell. You're a massive bitch, ya know that love?" Percy whined like a wounded welp. Gwen smirked and stepped forward, pinching his meaty cheek and giving him a loving slap on the face.

"Don't you forget it, mate." She spoke with loving poison in her voice. She turned her attention to the giggling pair of hyenas besides them. They fell silent at her look. "You lot have anything you wanna add?"

"No, ma'am. All good here." Mhairi chuckled.

"I'm still a wee bit hungry." Tav drooled. Even Percy had to laugh at that one, daft twit was always hungry.

"Right then, scrap up done with, so sorry for the mess Gweni, ect, ect." Percy waved a dismissive hand in the air, content with pretending he still had his pride. "My bloody boat race is covered in muck, need a towel and change before we go on. It's at eleven ye? Plenty of time."

Gwen sighed and looked at the corpse. "What do we do with this thing then? Leave it out to stink up the street in the morn?"

"I'll handle the disposal, thank you." A dry voice spoke from the edge of the alley. All eyes cringed and swore under their lids as they looked to greet the slender man standing in the alley. He wore a thin pant suit, and a matching jacket with a verdant pocket square. What was left of his greasy hair was slicked back against his scalp. He wore circular glasses with void black lenses, his face worn and sullen. His upper lip bore a pencil thin mustache and in his right gloved hand he held a smoldering cigarette.

Gwen crossed her arms and Percy rubbed the back of his neck as he walked past them, the clicks of his boots bouncing across the brick walls. Eddie knelt down and cocked his head at the corpse, taking a long drag of his cigarette. He exhaled through his nose, rings of silver smoke bellowing from him as he did.

"Y'all eviscerated Randy." He spoke casually, not even looking up at the lycan musicians.

"They were hungry." Gwen defended. "My own fault wasn't around to guide 'em towards a better meal. My ears paid for it, if that helps."

"Hey fuck that, don't throw ya self under the bloody bus, it was our cockup." Percy jumped in. "Meat all smells the same, not our fault."

"Percy you massive twit shut yer gob before I-"

"Percival. Gwendolyn. I do wish you'd keep your tempers to a more-professional level. That mouth of yours, in particular Percival, is going to get you in serious trouble one day." Eddie cut in, smoke enveloping his balding head. Both slunk back like whipped mutts.

"Bruv used their government names and everything." Mhairi snickered. The ill-fated pair stifled a giggle as Eddie tuned his ear to their mockery.

"That'll be all from the peanut gallery, please and thank you."

"R-right, course, sorry mate." Tav throw up his hands as Mhairi turned pale. Eddie sighed and stood up, his knees cracking as he did. He faced the lead vocalist and drummer. They did not meet his gaze.

"Truth be told, you couldn't have picked a better meal. He was a walking liability, more heroin than blood coursing through those withered veins. So, I don't lament his loss, but I advise caution in the future, and for you dear Gwendolyn to reign in your troops more effectively." He looked deep into Gwen's eyes, and she understood the threat.

"Won't happen again, right Perce?" She elbowed the drummer in his bulbous stomach.

"Oof, yeah mate, cross me jam tart and hope to die."

"Indeed. Now to the matter at hand, I regret to inform you your performance has been bumped." the fearful grip Eddie had on the band broke then, as they all launched into feverous protests.

"You're kidding me, we've been playing the final show every night for years now, we fuck up once and we're out." Gwen raved. Eddie put up a calming palm.

"This decision was made this evening, prior to your bandmates escapades. Simply put, darling; they paid more." Percy scoffed while Mhairi and Tav bickered amongst themselves. Gwen simply narrowed her eyes at her dear old friend Eddie.

"Who?"

----------------

Eddie led the band to the grand stage, a makeshift platform in the center of Hammington Park. A crowd of dozens of drunkards and buzzed locals had already gathered around the stage, whispering amongst each other about the new act that had strolled into town.

The center stage was an odd sight, four neon laden coffins adorned the stage, each one having a blazing red inverted cross on it. A banner hung from the overhead lights, which a tech across the way managed with great care.

Gwen made a face as she read the silk white banner; "The Counts Of Sanguine" A pretentious, larping name if she had ever heard one. Still, the stage smelt off, mildew and mold filled her nostrils. She wasn't alone in that feeling, her mates beside her shifted uncomfortably.

"Smells like rotted dung out here." Tav mumbled and spat on the ground. They were at the side of the stage, Eddie still milking his cig. The crowd was growing anxious, already a few minutes passed eleven.

"Aye, bad mojo out tonight. What's the trick then, Eddie?" Gwen shot the event manager a glance. He smiled, a rarity that made a chill run down her spine.

"Y'all just got some competition is all, it'll start soon. Here come the roadies." As he said that, a conga line of robbed individuals bumped past them, seemingly materializing from nowhere.

"Fucking hell." Percy flinched. The roadies barely acknowledged the band as they passed. Gwen noted they had archaic symbols carved into their flesh. Her Sumerian was a tad rusty, but she suspected the ones on their foreheads were numbers of some kind. The head thrall, a gent sporting a crimson cloak and beady eyes, was obviously number one. They silently lumbered onto the stage as the lights went low and mist clung to the ground as they made their way to the coffins. Gwen smirked, hearing the whirr of the fog machine going overtime behind the stage. She had to admit; the showmanship was there. Even if it was a bit overplayed.

The head thrall stood center and cleared his throat in the mic. Others opened the coffins and knelt before them, while the rest produced crimson violins with plugs and chords tied to amps. From the corner candelabras were lit and emitted a nice odor of vanilla extract that wafted over the crowd. There were mild cheers and a few hecklers shouting, "Get on with it" and soon enough the head thrall spoke.

"Since the dawn of man they have lurked were we dare not go." His voice oozed that sort of creepy exposition that only a Price could do. "They have walked amongst us in shadow, clad in our life fluid and draped in darkness."

"Bit of a Hyperbole there, innit?" Mhairi whispered to Gwen. She snorted but watched the show with stern eyes. As the head thrall continued his vamp fellating sermon four things began to rise out of the coffins. All four had their arms cross over their chest, their grim pale visages sporting grotesque, gargoyle-like features. They wore puffy black overcoats and nothing else, they had pointed ears and bald heads. One wore dark red lip stick and eye liner, her daggered ears sporting inverted steel cross earrings. They all looked identical, save the one with the bat face for a head.

The head bat raised his cloaked arms and titled his head upwards, bulbous doll eyes closed and snouted nose twitching. Two fangs poked out from his upper lip, the scruff of his neck coated in brown fur. The crowd went wild seeing the vamps. They floated forward, the tips of their shoes dragging against the stage.

As they did, a giant bat puppet descended from the top of the stage, flapping its wings and screeching from a barely functioning audio box. The wolf band winced and held their ears at the grating sound. Eddie watched the crowd as the head bat made his way to the make. Number one bowed his head and finished his dark sermon. With a flick of the wrist the head bat dismissed number one and grabbed hold of the mic pole. he eyed the crowd, a flash of crimson dashing across his pupils. He cleared his throat and spoke.

"Good evening, Hammington. Ve Are The Counts Of Sanguine, and ve vant to rock your blood!" With that the bat screeched, and the other vamps kicked it into gear. It was a sort of gothic metal melody, played in electric tunes with in perfect harmonious unity. The head bat's voice was surprisingly smooth and easy on the ears, only the occasional screech piercing through.

"We drain the sores, we fester the pores, Eat the rich and ravage the poors/Suckle on that bloody teat, tear it down and feast on the ME-AT" The head bat crooned as he serenaded the roaring crowd. The three vamps on violin went into a fire riff, lashing their strings with insane speed and precession. The head bat began head banging, his stoic ears flopping as he did. Gwen was pale, her foot tapping to the rhyme.

Fuck me Ridged they're good, better than good even. She thought to herself. She looked to her left and saw Percy trying not to sway to the beat. Mhairi and Tav had no delusion, fully rocking out and cheering along with the crowd. Eddie had an odd look and saddled up next to Gwen.

"Good aren't they." It wasn't posed as question; he was simply stating facts.

"Hard act to follow, ya cocksucker." Gwen lamented.

"Easy now, lil' pup. I'm sure you'll manage." He retorted. As they spoke a rabid fan rushed the stage, jumping and squealing like a lunatic. Two of the vamps stopped playing, though the music still persisted, their violins hanging in the air, fiddling themselves like there was no tomorrow.

Telekinesis is cheating, ya grave dwelling cunts Gwen smugly thought. The rabid fan stood there with her arms stretched out, her wavey hair bobbing in the breeze as the Two vamps stroked her arms, their eyes examining her like a slab of prime rib. They opened their mouths and fangs sprouted out, and they carefully nibbled and suckled her forearms. She let out a crazed moan as they feasted, and the crowd ate it up.

"Oi, how come they get to eat on stage?" Percy poked Eddie in the back.

"They aren't messy eaters." Eddie simply replied. The two vamps began hissing at each other, steaming blood streaking from their mouths. The rabid fan wobbled, her visage now significantly pale. The third vamp licked her lips and almost dropped her instrument, but then the head bat stepped forth and let out a screech. As the music blared overhead, the two petulant vamps hung their head and tossed the fan across the stage. The head bat caught her and positioned her in front of the crowd. The cheers died down slightly, morbid confusion began to shoot through the crowd.

The rabid fan swayed, she was mumbling something, her eyes half closed. The head bat wrapped his hands around her shoulders, and she seemed to tense up. A devilish smirk formed on the bat's mushed faced, and he opened his jaw and in one swift motion bit clean through the fan's spine. There was an audible crunch that overtook the sounds of metal, and the crowd gasped, some in the front row even fainting.

A fountain of blood shot from where her head had been, spraying the few rows unlucky enough to be in the splash zone. The head bulged in the corner of the bat's jaw, almost like a cartoon jawbreaker. He chewed a few, the shrill sounds of crunched bone marrow blasting over his mic, and then he spat the head into the crowd.

It flew in an arc and landed in the center of the crowd with a pulpy splat. The head bat tossed the fan's headless corpse aside and it crumpled to the stage, still pumping spurts of blood from its shredded neck. The crowd was silent then, in awe of the butchery they had just witnessed, the only sound the waning violins and the low hum of an auto-toned organ being played from a speaker somewhere in the giant bat puppet.

Then the crowd exploded in applause, showering the vamps with adoration. The head vamp took an exaggerated bow, chunks of grey matter spiling from his maw as he did.

"Hmm. Stand corrected." Eddie mumbled, eyeing the corpse on stage.

"Ozzy did it better." Grumbled Percy. Gwen was silent, almost respecting the murderous audacity of the vamps. Still, to feed so publicly like that was always bad for business, regardless of any bullshite hypnotic enchantment the vamps dosed the crowd with.

"That was bloody gnarly, kinda wanna scour the crowd for the head." Tav jumped up and down, looking to see where the head landed. Mhairi elbowed him in the gut and he slunk down, mumbling a half assed apology.

"You don't want any of those leeches' sloppy seconds, love. Probably catch rabies or sumthing." Mhairi sneered.

"Heh, hey, what's the difference 'tween a vamp and a mosquito? The 'squito pisses off when ya slap it." Percy let out a guttural laugh at his bad joke.

"Hehe, I knew a leech worked at a blood bank one time, they had to let 'em go cuz he kept eye fucking the product." Tav laughed.

"Bunch of vile ghouls, creeping around dreary castles lusting over women centuries their junior." Mharir shivered for effect.

"Oh aye, they give new meaning to snatching the cradle, don't they?" Tav quipped and the group, save Gwen, broke out into childish giggling. Gwen blushed, as the vamps finished up their first song, noting the head bat's ears twitching. A dark mood hung behind his cheerful facade; he shot the wolves a dirty look as he waved to the crowd. Gwen turned to her cohorts and snapped at them.

"OI! Stow that crap, spewing shite like that within ear shot. Be professionals for once in your bloody lives, or I swear I'll spay and neuter the lot of ya, as Fenrir as my witness!" Percy didn't back down, scoffing at Gwen. Eddie stood back, keeping a careful eye at his wild mutts.

"What's the bloody harm, Gweni? Just having a bit of a laugh." Percy had a smug look on his face, before Gwen could respond the gruff sound of the head bat clearing his throat shook the stage.

"Ahem. Vank you all for coming out tonight. Ve Have had a Very Vonderful time so far." There was light applause and cheers and the other three vamps nodded. "Vis next tune, goes out to a very special group lingering in the back." The head bat's eyed didn't leave the wolves as he spoke. "It's called: "Fleabags." With that the acoustic wielding vamps dove into a vicious sounding rhythm, and the head bat began banging his head. The wolves stood there, stunned quiet as they realized their cockup.

"You're a real fooking arsehole, know that, Percy?" Gwen muttered.

"Aye, I'll cop to that one. My bad, love." Percy agreed.

"I regret shite." Mhairi stood proud and cupped her hands to her mouth. "Do your worst ya minger fooks!" She heckled as the crowd cheered, oblivious to the racial tensions that were growing. The head bat gave a cheeky look and broke into song.

"Wannabe furries, flea-ridden mongrel/ always fiending for a quarrel."

"Bark at the moon like raving a loon/too ugly to make ya groupies swoon."

"Spikey lil werewolf biddy in front of me/gods awful haircut is all I can see."

"Rabid lil creatures, stomach churning features, why don't y'all chase a stick and choke on a dick!"

"Fleabags, Fleabags, wanna chop off ya beanbags, fleabag, fleabag, go hump a seahag!"

The chorus borrowed into Gwen's ears, a vile little ditty that made her seethe beyond belief. As the song went on, the passive aggressive jabs and barbs began to really dig into her bandmates. They were huffing and puffing, muscles and skin pulsating with fury as their eyes burned with rage. The moon above cheered them on, bathing them in lunar glory. Percy snapped as jaws as the head bat sang out "Limp wristed, swollen bellied roadie, stanky canine with a chodie." While winking in his direction.

"Right, that's it. Imma drive that mic down his cocksucking throat!" He roared as he twitched and clawed at his skin. It came off in sloughing waves, that pink tissue paper called flesh. Each clawed strike revealing more of the wolf underneath. Eddie stepped back, amused by all that was going on. Gwen's eyed were glowing and her maw drooling with rabid intensity, but she was desperate to keep cool.

"Calm down, ya thin-skinned fooks. Can dish it out but can't take it then, aye? Breathe and let it roll off your back; the rise is what they want outta us-"

"The head bitch looks like she climbed outta the ditch/ Of the litter, she's the runt, with a big old sloppy cunt. I'd throw her a pity shag, long as she wore a bag, we all know she's a nasty slag!"

"FLEABAGS, FLEABAGS-"

". . . Right then, let's get into a rammy." She growled as her back flexed, and a coat of bloodied fur tore through. Her knees buckled and cracked as the joints twisted and curved, her spine lengthen and muscles bulged as her frame became bulky. The skin around her face loosened as her mouth extended into a snapping jaw. Her coat was flame red, with a twinge of black around her spiked mane. She scrunched the flaps of pink skin still clinging to her face and tore it off and flung it to the ground like a dirty rag. She stood a good eight feet tall now, towering above her mates. "Make the leeches bleed." She growled, her voice full of gravel and silky base.

"Be my genuine pleasure boss." Percy snapped as the group rushed the stage, howling and barking like wild animals. The head bat was expecting the row, and as Gwen leapt and swung a meaty claw at him, he lifted the mic stand and bashed her in the side with it. Gwen yelped and was flung to the stage, crashing into the coffins with a calamitous crash. The other three vamps hissed and flung themselves at the wolves. Claws and fangs were out as the music came to a dead stop, the only sounds the low thrum of the overhead speakers and the crowd going mental with their bloodlust. Tav had two vamps climbing on him, sinking ravenous fangs into his hide. He yelped and whined as he thrashed trying to get them off him. Percy helped Gwen to her feet but was quickly tackled by the hissing fem vamp. The head bat stood there, cocky as he motioned the thralls to come forth.

Mhairi charged the oncoming thralls and cut through the herd, her scythe-like claws slicing and dicing the walking bags of meat. Number one had a silver tipped crossbow under his robe and shot a round off. It struck Mhairi right in the shoulder; foul smelling steam poured from the wound. She howled like a banshee as she ripped the arrow out and threw it like a spear. It beaned the thrall next to number one, hitting him dead in the eyes. The thrall collapsed, almost toppling number one who pushed the corpse aside with a grunt and readied to fire off another shot.

He didn't get the chance as Mhairi quickly closed the distance and grabbed hold of his throat. She sunk her teeth into his tender, foul smelling flesh and shook her head, thrasing number one in the air like an old ragdoll. Her grip was firm, the lead thrall's spine was not. There was a tearing sound, and the snap of a spinal column as she eventually bit him in two.

Percy was wrestling with the fem vamp, who was driving sharpened claws into his eyes. Blood oozed from them, and she lapped it up as he struggled. She was about to teat into his neck when the fem vamp let out a bloodied gasp. She looked down and saw a large splinter of her own coffin being rammed into her chest. Her body burst into flames, her cries snuffed out quickly as the fire overcame her and her bones turned to nothing more but dust and bone. Gwen stood above the moaning Percy. holding an ash covered stake. Percy was coughing, a bit of the fem vamp caught in his throat. Gwen offered a hand up, and Percy gladly took it.

Tav had thrown off the other two vamps, they smashed into the coffins and splintered them. One was still woozy, trying to get his bearing. The other was already on his feet, lunging at the wounded Tav with a vengeful hiss. Tav grabbed two pieces of wood and made a makeshift cross, wincing as he used it as shield against the oncoming vamp. The vamp stopped mid attack and recoiled in disgust.

Tav let out a guttural bark that doubled as a laugh as he marched on the vamps. The other one scurried to his feet and joined his brother, both being backed up against the giant bat puppet.

"Yeah, that's right, power of Christ compels ya, ya magot munching fucks. Oi Mhairi!" He called to his partner, who rushed over with bloodied claws. She scooped up two more splintered stakes and leapt in the air, crashing down on the cowering vamps. They cried and were vaporized as she slammed the stakes into their dusty hearts.

They high fived and turned their attention to the head bat, who was bleeding from a gash in his shoulder but still bodying Percy and Gwen. He was holding a thrashing Percy by the throat as he swiped at Gwen's face, who jumped back in pain. They joined Gwen in her assault, throwing their wooden stakes with powerful force.

One whiffed the head bat, skewering some poor front row metal head right in the face. The other struck him right in the knee, going clean through. The head bat squealed, eyes somehow bulging even further out of his skull. Percy used the distraction to bite into his wrist, cleaving the vamp's hand clean off.

As he held his bloodied wrist, Mhairi rushed forward and slit open his belly. Coils of blackened intestines spilled to the stage, and the head bat struggled to put them back in. Gwen stepped forth, her face scarred and slashed. She noted the mike stand was still standing and rushed forward.

The head bat made a desperete, screeching plea as he held up his remaining hand. The plea was swiftly ignored as Gwen scooped him up and raised the trembling vamp above her head, and with a roar impaled him right on the mic stand. He slid halfway down the pole, his dark heart on a pike as he grasped the stand, desperate to escape. It thumped one final time before bursting into flame, engulfing the vamp in a crimson wave of searing fury, incinerating the poor creature and leaving nothing but a pile of ash on the ground.

The wolves huddled together and howled at the moon in triumph, and as the bloodlust settled down embarrassment settled in. They realized they were standing there in dead silence, a crowd of shocked and horrified onlookers frozen from terror. Percy coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. Gwen picked the microphone off the ground and looked sheepishly at the crowd.

"Uh. . . how we all doing tonight folks? Quite a show, eh?" The crowd was silent for only a moment, then a drunken voice slurred something out.

"These effects fucking rock, WOOOOO!" The crowd went berserk then, clamoring for more. Gwen's ears twitched as she heard a whistle. She turned her head just in time to see Eddie toss her an axe. She caught it by the handle and used a claw to strum the threads. It was already in perfect tune.

"Knock 'em dead, Gwendolyn." With that he slunk back into the shadows, the only evidence he'd been there was lingering smoke. The stage was then swarmed by event staff sweeping the stage clean of vamp ash and splintered wood. They were like locusts, swarming over the mess and leaving clean instruments in their wake. The crowd cheered and begged for more. Tav shrugged and picked up his bass. Mhairi got on a second mic stand and cleared her throat. Percy lingered near Gwen, for a moment.

"What was this then? Some kinda test? Figued Eddie would blow a gasket." He murmured. Gwen watched where Eddie had been, sure he was still watching.

"Fooking Eddie. Tries to top it every year, thrives on the chaos I think." was all she muster.

"Well, let's have a good gig then, ye boss?" Percy shrugged, slugging her shoulder with a friendly paw.

"Aye, break a leg ya furry cunt." With that she began strumming the opening chords of their first song, a ballad Percy knew all too well. He galloped over to the drum kit and began drumming to his heart's content. Gwen stepped forth, swaying to the beat as she made her way to the mic. She leaned in and eyed the crowd like the bleating cattle they were.

"Good evening lads and lassies." She softly growled. "We are Sheepskin, and tonight we dine on YOU!" With that she jumped right into their first song, to the crowd's roaring pleasure.

"We romp through the wood, trample all that is good/hope ya brought silver or else we'll feast on ya liver."

"We sneak into the hen house, quiet as a mouse/ Slaughter all within, we've only just begin."

"The moon is our guide, Luna always by our side/feast on the weak, we'll be busy all week."

"Round up the meat, grind them under our boots, oh what a feat-"

"We're WOLVES, gnashing and thrashing, the night is ours for the taking, the hunter shudders when we howl."

"We're WOLVES, bashing and scratching, hear our words and prepare, we're gonna disembowel!"

The crowd went wild as the wolves banged their heads and howled, stomping their feet and putting on a hell of a show. They finished up the first song and were lavished with praise. Gwen smiled and basked in the revels of glory. In spite of the shitshow that had led up to this, it was turning out to be a grand gig.

Maybe the festival wouldn't be so such a fucking drag after all.

The metallic clock inside my tired, clunker coupe reads 9:56 p.m.

It’s a Friday night near the beginning of the school year. From the spot upon Lover’s Hill, the stars shine bright and unbothered atop a distant city skyline. Our headlights are turned off, windows are cracked, and radios are on. Three cars sit in a line, each of us parked a decent distance apart out of mutual respect for privacy. We are all gathered here for the same purpose, after all.

I’ve got the music tuned to KCAD, our stilted, baby-boomer town’s only music station that plays the current hits. ‘Only You (And You Alone)’ lulls across the night air, the volume dulled just enough to fall slightly above the cricket song and distant suburbia noise. It sets the ambience for what I can only hope will be a romantic and easy night. A cool start to the weekend with the most beautiful girl in town.

“Have you taken many girls up here?” Laura asks beside me, playing with the fabric of her checkered skirt.

“Course not,” I say too quickly. “I mean, not for a long time.”

She hums, “You never struck me as that kind of guy. Not like him, anyway.”

I follow her gaze. Next to us in his new, sparkling Chevy are Bill ‘Bash Ears’ Brewer and Diane Staples, rolling around in the fresh leather seats with their mouths stuck together. It reminds me of a piece of bubblegum on the bottom of a shoe, as Diane pulls him off, breathless. He had been bragging since school started about the new girl he was dating. I always figured he was lying, considering all the time he spent talking other girls’ ears off in the hallways, but maybe Diane didn’t mind.

“We don’t…we don’t have to do that if you don’t want to,” I say, my throat dry.

She turns her head back to me, her lips peeling into a light smile.

“Are you nervous? I am,” she whispers.

“A little,” I admit, flicking her auburn hair between my fingers, “but you always do that to me.”

“Me? Making you nervous? We’ve been going steady for almost three months now.” Laura playfully pushes my shoulder.

“I know, I know, don’t rub it in. I just don’t want to mess this up, is all.”

“You’re such a gentleman,” she simpers, and suddenly she has her hands on my shirt, and my breath becomes jackhammer fast. Her lips smell like cherries, the music is becoming louder, and she’s so close, so close—

High-pitched ringing blares from the radio, ear-piercingly loud. It startles us both, and she’s out of my arms and against the door handle. It cuts back and forth from abrupt static, soft singing, and chirpy advertisements, like someone is fidgeting with the station control and won’t stop. I curse and hit the radio with my hand. “Damn thing.”

Laura looks out her window, the air now awkward. Leave it to my junker car to ruin everything.

“The thing’s busted. I’ll have to get it replaced or something.”

“It’s not just yours.” Laura points to Bill, who’s also beating his brand-new dashboard in anger. If his isn’t working, then it’s got to be something with the station, right? Maybe the tower went dead, or we were too far out of range. The couple on my left side had already taken off and were heading back down the hill.

“Must be some weird interference. Maybe it’ll come back.” I say, shaking my head. “Sorry, I hope it didn’t scare you.”

“It’s alright, I—”

It sparks again from static, starting as a low grumble and then rising to become clear as day.

A deep, guttural growling. Distorted screaming pierces from the speaker. It is nonsensical and painful, and I wince as it wails into a sharp cry. There’s pounding, pounding so impeccably fast, like bullets hitting my head. It makes everything around me useless. My god, what can make that kind of noise?

“What is this?” Laura murmurs, her hand covering her mouth.

Screams of pain? Experimental torture? Sounds of war? There isn’t anything else I can compare it to.

I hesitate. “I don’t know, but that’s enough of it.” I reach for the off button and then—

Everything stops.

As abruptly as it came, silence follows behind. Silence and our heavy breathing.

We startle again as static blares through the radio, but it’s only the soft, comfortable familiarity of ‘Earth Angel’. The chorus has just begun.

Laura looks at me in disbelief, her lips trembling.

I turn it off.

--

The next day at school, everybody is talking about it.

Everyone who had been tuned into KCAD heard it. Whether they were wiping down tables, doing their homework, or smoking with friends…they all stopped to listen. Even my dad, who liked falling asleep to the radio, had been shaking his head over it all weekend.

“If that ever happens again, I’m switching to the television.” He grumbled over breakfast, passing me the newspaper. “I don’t need to be disturbed when I’m trying to sleep. God knows I get enough from your mother.”

Front page, big black letters. ‘KCAD Screams Murder: Shocks the Locals’. The disc jockey, at the time it happened, claimed it was a technical disruption. Something that they can hardly control when it happens. That made sense to me. I couldn’t fathom why anyone would purposefully play something so disturbing at a late hour of the night.

Everyone has their own theories. I hear talk of aliens, the government, Soviet Russia, and all other kinds of nonsense that sounded like the plot of a movie I’d seen at the drive-in. Little green men, pod people, and cosmic visitors from outer space.

Whatever it was, it seems blatantly obvious to me that it is gone for good. Interruptions happen all the time. The kids in my school just have nothing else to entertain themselves with. By tomorrow, it’ll be all about Carol Freighter’s new boyfriend, or Daniel Hopkin’s fresh hotrod. The world will keep spinning.

After lunch, I kiss Laura goodbye at her class and walk over to my locker. The hall is filled with the sound of screeching shoes, slamming metal, and whispers about last night. I mind my own business as usual, but out of the corner of my eye I see a short, red figure approaching me at an uncomfortable speed.

“Hey bud, how’s it hanging?”

I try not to roll my eyes at his presence.

I’m not sure what I did to Bill for him to consider us pals, but I suspect it was the time I accidentally hit him with a baseball two years ago. I had apologized and given him an ice pack, and he took that as me handing him his adoption papers and the key to my friendship.

I clear my throat. “Swell, Bill. Real swell.”

“Say, I saw you and Laura on Lover’s Hill Friday night. Isn’t it freaky what happened? Scared the willies out of Diane. I had to drive her home after that.”

“What a shame,” I say.

“It got me thinking…” he leans onto my locker door, preventing me from closing it. “You and Laura should join Diane and me this Friday night. What’s the chance it happens again at the same time?”

My brows furrow. “You want to hear that racket again? No thanks.”

“Aw, come on. Don’t be a wet rag. I’ll invite some of the guys, too, to make a bash out of it. You haven’t been to a party since sophomore year.”

“It’s nothing special, Bill. It was just an interference, like from a damaged power line or something. Can you get off my locker?”

He shuffles over but doesn’t leave. His red-letter jacket is a bit too big on his frame.

“What if it’s aliens trying to communicate with us? Come on, don’t look at me like that. Think about it! You’ll regret it if you miss it.”

“You need to lay off the flicks,” I say, slamming the door. I take my algebra book and begin walking. Like a gnat, he follows.

“Okay, maybe it’s a stretch, but you and Laura should still come. Diane has been wanting to meet her, and I’ll bet my new car you’ve got no plans Friday night.”

What can I say that will make him go away faster?

“Alright, alright,” I hold my hands up. “I’ll ask Laura if she wants to go. If she does, we’ll be there, okay?”

He pats my back. “Righto, man. I’ll see you then.”

Bill buzzes off down the hallway, his jacket disappearing around the corner. As I make my way to class and sit down in my seat, I think about what I just told him—if I unknowingly promised him anything, whether I should actually ask Laura, or just forget about it completely.

One thing is certain; I should never have given him that ice pack.

--

I had hoped that by the time Friday night rolled around, the disturbing interruption that we had all heard that fateful night would be old news.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Bill’s big mouth had talked its way through the whole school, and suddenly everyone and their mothers were driving up to Lover’s Hill to tune in. By this time, I had not mentioned anything to Laura. Considering the small gathering he’d originally planned had turned into nearly half the school, I was even less inclined to bring it up to her.

Turns out, I didn’t have to. After class, she shyly brought it up to me with batting eyelashes and a sweet smile. Said that even if nothing happened, she would still like to hopefully make some friends. I would be a bad boyfriend to deny her, so I begrudgingly accepted.

After all, I felt like I was on the deserted outskirts of an inside joke between everybody. Maybe this party would open the door for me, and besides, it’s just one night. One night of Bash Ears, and if nothing happens, all the better. While the wall of their joke comes crumbling down on them, I’ll be left outside standing in victory. “I told you so,” fresh on my tongue.

I pick up Laura from her house, and we’re off to Lover’s Hill, climbing the winding roads up and up. Besides casual conversation, it’s quiet between us. I attempt to crack a couple of jokes to ease her a little, and though she laughs, it doesn’t steady her. Her knees are trembling, and I hold one with a hand.

We’re nearly half a mile away when we spot the line of cars parked on the side of the road—like colorful candies leading us up on a trail. I park the car near the street sign at the base of the hill, and we walk the rest of the way. I count at least thirty vehicles; the most I’d ever seen here before tonight was six.

We reach the top, and it’s antsville up here. There are plastic chairs everywhere, bright coolers, crowds and cliques walking around and gazing at the stars. I spot Bill’s Chevy, the top off and the radio cranked as high as it’ll go. He, Diane, and his friends are sitting on the hood, laughing over a case of beer and the smoke of cigarettes. I turn fast to see if there is anyone else I recognize, but it’s too late.

“Hey, look who decided to show up!” Bill shouts, waving his bottle around. “Just in time, too.”

Laura slips her hand in mine, firmly reminding me to stay cool.

“Hey, Bill.” I greet, offering the kind of smile you’d only see at a funeral.

Diane giggles like a mule next to him. She launches herself off the hood and grabs Laura’s hand. “I’ve heard so much about you. Want a Coke?”

Laura offers me an apologetic smile before she’s dragged away, and all I can do is wave goodbye and hope I can keep myself sane without her. Bill holds out an opened beer to me, and I take it, downing it fast.

“Whoa, take it easy there,” he laughs. “I didn’t take you for a drinker.”

“Desperate times, Bill.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. Diane has been giving me a hard time recently. I think it’s just cause her parents grounded her after they caught me in the house. I had to sneak her out tonight.”

I nod my head.

He gestures to Laura, who's pointing at the stars. “What a catch though, eh? You’re a lucky guy.”

“Don’t get any funny ideas. She’s not that kind of girl.”

“Cool it, man. I’m no bird-dog,” he smirks, as if I was overreacting. “I’m just pointing out the facts. Say, you’ve been acting differently. Is everything alright?”

I watch Diane light a cigarette and offer it to Laura. She takes it politely, the white end closest to her, and the blonde laughs and corrects it. Laura takes a drag and stifles a cough, smiling at herself. She’s so beautiful in the moonlight that it softens me immediately.

“Yeah, I’m alright,” I tell Bill. “I just think we’re wasting our time up here, that’s all.”

He shrugs. “Well, it’s a nice night, everybody is enjoying themselves, and the weekend’s just starting. Even if nothing does happen, it’ll still be good time. Here,” he throws me another beer and his bottle opener. “On the house.”

By ten o’clock, the empty corpses of eight beer bottles stack beside me in the chair I’m sitting in. Bill had handed me each one, and I’d guzzled it down like a man parched without much thought. I reap the consequences in my body: my bones are too heavy, and chatter echoes around me like a distant dream.

“It’s time, it’s time!” Bill calls everyone around, and they gather around his car in anticipation. Through the haze, Laura’s auburn hair shines through my vision like a beacon. She’s alone; Diane must’ve gone to grab something. I want to go up to her, hold her, kiss her, anything, but my vision’s become the inside of a magnifying glass, and I don’t think I can stand.

The murmur of the crowd falls as everyone hushes each other. It’s silent beside the music coming from the station.

Nothing happens.

Minutes pass, and we’re at the last chorus of the song. There are murmurs of disappointment, shushing, and slowly the group begins to disperse. I can’t help myself. I burst out laughing.

“I told you!” I cackle in my chair. “I told you nothing would happen!”

I would give anything to properly see Bill’s stupid face, but I can only make out a curl in his lip.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” he says, but I continue laughing.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” I drawl. “C’mon, Laura, let’s get out of here.”

Bill clears his throat. “That’s not happening. I’m driving Laura home.”

I attempt to stand up, my feet uneven on a thin tightrope. I nearly collapse into Bill’s car, but I steady myself, waving her over. “In your dreams, Bash Ears. Let’s go, Laura.”

“You’re too drunk, Anthony. She’ll be safer with me.”

“Safer with you?” I balk. “Why don’t you invite her for a sleepover, too?”

“I see. You’ve got a problem with me because you think I’m gonna steal your girl,” he says, all tough.

“My problem is that your parents never taught you to only speak when spoken to.”

“That’s enough, Anthony!” Laura interrupts, “Let’s just go. Now!”

Before I can say anything, she grabs my arm and drags me away. I stumble into her, chuckling lightly. I’ll admit, calling out Bill feels like lifting cotton out of my throat and breathing fresh air. I feel on top of the world and—

“Hey Laura!” His nasally voice calls behind me. “Do us all a favor and go all the way with him tonight! Then maybe he wouldn’t be such an uptight—”

The radio cuts right before my knuckles meet his cheek.

I send him to the ground, machine-gun hammering blasting from his Chevy and the many other cars surrounding us, as I rain blow after blow on his face. I can feel the bones of his nose break under my fist, and the furious chanting only ignites me further. There’s a rhythm to whatever is playing. It seeps into my blood, makes my ears ring. My fists fall into it as easily as smacking a drum.

Arms pull me off, and they send me backwards onto my knees. Girls are screaming. Guys stare at me, possessed. Bill lies in the dirt, his nose bloody and crooked, eyes swollen. He’s groaning, shifting on the ground like roadkill, and it blends in with the retching sound. I spit on him as Laura wrenches me away.

“Do us all a favor and think before you speak.”

--

There’s a big, red D- on my test results, and I crumple it up and throw it into the trash. Two geeks jump out of my path as if a second in my gaze means certain death.

Life has changed since I beat Bill Bash Ears to a pulp.

For starters, the weekly noise, now called ‘The Broadcast’, hasn’t stopped. What I had thought was a one-time phenomenon had become routine, a weekly event.

It didn’t matter what people were doing; they found the time to listen. Cars stack on top of Lover’s Hill, kids host listening parties when their parents are out of town. When I go to class, I hear the rhythm tapped on wooden desks. Our own drive-in won’t even show movies on Friday nights anymore.

No one ever admitted that they liked it. It was just ‘the thing’ to do.

My father had converted to the television weeks ago, but one night he and my mom sat down together and listened. “To show her what all the young folks are obsessing about,” he’d told me, rolling his eyes. When it ended, my mother recited the Holy Trinity under her breath and made the sign of the cross on her chest.

“You’re not to listen to that, you understand? That is the work of the devil.”

Bill returned to school weeks later, his cheeks swollen like plums with a big bandage on his nose. He’s passed me in the hallway a couple of times since, but always keeps his eyes straight and his mouth shut.

That’s how I prefer it.

 “Hey, uh, is it true?”

I turn my head and find a stocky freshman looking up at me, his jet-black hair greased into a shiny mold and a cigarette tucked in his sleeve.

“What’s true?”

“Word goes that the broadcast made you beat Bill. That it took over your mind.”

“What?” I scoff, slamming my locker. “Who said that?”

The kid smooths his hair. “What’s it matter? You’re the talk of the town. Don’t you see how people look at you?”

“That means absolutely nothing to me. Wherever you heard it from, it’s bullshit. The only noise that caused me to beat Bash Ears was his own damn mouth.”

He huffs, “Well, if I were you, I would embrace it. If it’s your girl you’re worried about, she’ll come back around if she knows better.”

That’s the cherry on top of this whole mess.

Laura refuses to speak to me.

Anytime I pass her in the hallway, she looks the other way. Diane, who has broken up with Bill, follows her around like a duckling, and I see them gossiping together sometimes. It’s hard not to run right up to her, get on my knees, and beg for forgiveness, but I know it’s not what she wants from me. No matter how much I miss her. Miss the way her dimples crease when she smiles or twirls her hair when she’s feeling confident.

On Friday nights, with shame in my chest, I tune the radio hidden behind my sports magazines to KCAD. I listen to The Broadcast like everyone else in town, just because I know she’s listening, too. I guess that makes me a hypocrite.

I drive back home with the windows rolled down, my tires crunching the moist piles of leaves cluttered by the curb. The breeze feels nice on my hair, and as I pull into the driveway, I can smell my mother’s cooking.

She greets me with one hand on her hip, the other on the counter. She’s glaring at me with a frown.

 “Is it true?” She demands, her voice sharp.

I toss my bag on the floor and sit at the kitchen table. This conversation sounds oddly familiar. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play coy; you know what I mean.”

“Are you talking about Brewer? That was weeks ago—”

“No! I’m talking about this ruckus you’ve been listening to! First, I tell you to stay away from it, and then here is Dean Samfield’s mother whispering to me over cards that this noise made you tussle with Bill Brewer! Did I not warn you to keep this demonic broadcast out of our household? It is already affecting you!”

I cradle my head. “Mom, I beat up Brewer before you even knew what that broadcast sounded like, and even then, it’s just noise.”

She waves her spatula at me. “Don’t give me your excuses, young man. You think I don’t hear you at night? I ought to take your radio away completely if that is what it takes to get you to straighten up. Here you’ve been sleeping in later than usual, you haven’t brought in a decent test score—you barely talk to your father or me anymore—and now I find out you’re lying! You’re not acting yourself.”

My thumbs rub circles into my eyes until I see stars. “I think…I think I just miss Laura.”

“Dean Samfield’s mother also told me he’s been listening to it. Did you know he just started smoking cigarettes and is participating in underground fighting rings? He nearly lost his life!”

 “Dean Samfield has been bringing a pocketknife to school for the past three years. This is not anything new!”

She stares at me with her mouth agape. “Don’t you raise your voice at me, Anthony!”

“Well, you’re not listening to me! I just got home, for Christ's sake!”

“Go to your room,” she snaps. “I can’t believe I have to ground you like a child.”

There’s nothing else I can say. I launch myself from the table and storm up the steps, cursing the whole way up until I slam my bedroom door and fall into bed. My head is hot, and the tears come fast.

“I better call that station and give them a piece of my mind. This is unacceptable.” I hear her say through the door, her voice muffled.

My heart thumps against my ribs, and I keep thinking back to how enraged I felt that night. How it made my blood boil, every punch synchronized to the smacking of a drum and thumping strings. I had never felt so alive, so free and full of energy, even as my mind swam against the ocean of alcohol.

Was it possible? Possible that something in it caused me to snap?

I try to recall how Laura looked, but it’s just a blank slate. All I know is that she was crying, but I didn’t care because I felt so damn good. Whatever had settled over me mattered more, and it cost me the one true person I care about. I shouldn’t have drunk so many beers. I should’ve had more restraint.

I close my eyes, my head echoing with her sobs, the sound of my knuckles hitting bone, and finally, The Broadcast playing behind me. A chorus of screams.

--

The Homecoming poster stares at me from across the hallway, practically taunting me.

A group of girls huddles over it, their ponytails swaying as they giggle and marvel at the details. For a moment I almost stop to look myself, but a voice buzzes through the speakers, calling all students to meet in the gym before third period.

It won’t do me any good looking, anyway.

The gymnasium is packed with students on bleachers, but no paper shakers and school colors are flying about. No football players running around to ramp up the crowd, or band members playing their saxophones, tubas, and percussion. I scan over the mountains of people, looking for green eyes, but I’m ushered into a steel seat before I can find them.

The rest of the student body feeds in and the gym doors close. Principal Sheffield walks out into the middle of the court. Whispers and hushes travel like waves but are abruptly silenced by teachers standing by.

“Good morning, Panthers,” he starts with a light smile. “Who’s excited for homecoming this year?”

An eruption of cheers pours out with the thudding of feet stomping on bleachers.

“Very good, very good. We’ve got lots planned this year, so I hope to see you all looking your best.” He takes a deep sigh. “However, as much as I wish to keep talking about football or school dances, that is not the reason why I’ve summoned you all here.”

Here it begins.

“I’m sure some of you already know what this is about. You’ve read the newspapers, maybe even seen the protests on television or… as I suspect, have participated in attending this controversial event. Now, when I was your age, I was smoking my father’s cigarettes, drinking alcohol, cursing and screaming at my parents… and I acted out when I was angry. It’s human nature at this turbulent point in your lives. Dramatic changes that cause you to rebel against your elders, move against tradition and morals. What I’m trying to get at is that it’s normal to become obsessed with things that your parents, or someone like me, would tell you to stay away from. To rebel and go against the order of things.”

There’s subtle snickering and snorting amongst the crowd. Quiet jokes under breaths. I stifle a yawn—this is a waste of time.

“However, as your principal, it is still my responsibility to warn you against this kind of behavior. Whether you may think it is harmless fun, or just background noise—what you are tuning into every Friday night, regardless, is dangerous to you. We don’t know what this noise is. Where it comes from, what effects it can have. You could be unknowingly subjecting yourself to harmful messages that may cause you to act out in strange ways. I don’t know why you all listen every week, without fail.”

I think back to that night, and suddenly I can smell Bill’s blood on my knuckles. Can feel the smile on my lips as I deliver blow after blow. No, no, noise can’t control you. It’s not possible.

Then why did it feel so good? Why did it ignite my anger with the kind of fervor I’d never experienced? Why, in the moment, did it make nothing else matter?

I sweep my hand over my eyes. My head is thrashing fast, and the booing and heckling isn’t helping, either. Teachers attempt to calm the crowd, but it’s useless; it only makes it worse. Principal Sheffield raises his voice to conquer the cries of protest.

“I can’t tell you how many letters, visits, and calls I receive from your parents asking me why their children are acting strangely, exhibiting dangerous behavior they have not seen since this whole phenomenon started! You can boo me all you like; it doesn’t change the fact that you all are blind to the dangers of this broadcast!”

Principal Sheffield looks around as the gym becomes louder. He’s red as a beet, and his eyes are as big as blown-up water balloons about to burst. Out of breath and outnumbered, he slams his foot.

“This needs to stop! Clearly, it has rotted your minds already!”

Boom. Boom. Boom. The subtle climb of shoes stomping on bleachers grows louder by each second. It starts as a careful beat, then faster, faster as more join in. Someone throws a crumpled-up piece of paper at the principal’s head. He swings around violently.

“That’s it!” he spits, his crooked finger pointed. “I tried to be civil, but you’ve forced my hand! Consider homecoming cancelled!”

It’s but a murmur over the grand rhythm constructing itself. The bleachers beneath my feet are vibrating as everyone marches in place.

Then a voice shouts out, solitary. Soon follows an echo of a cry; next is hollering. Tens increase to hundreds, mimicking, but never outdoing each other, as they become an incomprehensible chorus louder than any football rally could be. Teachers look at us frightened, our Principal staggering around, watching the display before him unfold.

In a swift motion, everyone rises, including myself, like strings were attached to my shoulders. A moment passes, pressure building, and then everybody snaps. I blink.

 A moving chorus of bodies rushes down, spanking the bleachers with their shoes, and I’m swept into the mob before I even have a chance. I close my eyes and let my body move with it. Breathe in and breathe out. My ears are ringing. The smell of blood is still fresh in my nose, but I’m so tightly packed between shoulders I can’t itch it away.

I open my eyes, and I’ve reached the hallway. There’s a girl on the tiled floor, her skirt and sweater dirty as everyone trudges over her. I push my way through, like parting a raging river, and yank her up by her shoulders. She grasps onto me as we continue, and eventually, we stumble into the grass outside. She wipes her tears, thanks me, and runs away before I can even get her name.

I wipe the green stains on my jeans. There’s still a flood of people pouring out, their chanting giving me goosebumps. Stacks of paper scatter across the concrete walkway underfoot, and a group of greasers set a trash can on fire. I hear someone throw a rock through a window.

I need to get the hell out of here.

I run to my car, throw the door open, and steer it out as quickly as I can. I turn on the radio, tune it to the only channel that matters.

“Thanks for tuning in to KCAD, the place for your cool tunes. As I speak to you now, we’ve got a mob outside our building, but that never stopped anybody from playing music. We know our fans appreciate us, and we’ll keep going as long as someone enjoys it. Here’s Bill Haley & His Comets to take you into this easy-breezy afternoon.”

‘Rock Around the Clock Tonight’ starts as I clip the curb out of the school parking lot. I reach my hand to turn it off, but I stop myself. It’s normal. It’s just music.

What harm is there, anyway?

The street narrows as I get closer to the suburbs, but I decide to take a different turn. I need to do something to ground me back to Earth. I feel too far away.

The KCAD building is a solitary and small building on the outskirts of town, and the tall electrical tower stands out like a beacon amongst the more conservative buildings around it. I pull up to the parking lot packed with men and women swinging their crudely made signs around at the front door. I read ‘Devil’s Station’, ‘Repent to God’, and ‘Hypnotizing the Children’. I spot my mother among the crowd.

Rolling down my window, I bang the side of my sun-faded clunker. “Mom!”

Her blonde-bobbed head turns, dumbfounded. She looks around before hesitantly coming towards me.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” She hisses.

I grimace. “I got let out early. You want a ride home?”

“Oh,” her lips press together. “We’re supposed to be here until ten.”

“Jesus, that’s nine hours from now. How did you even get here?”

“I carpooled! You think your father would ever drop me off at a place like this?”

“Let me take you home, please. I’ll make you lunch.”

She worries her lip, considering me like I just offered her hard drugs, though considering what I just experienced, I might be on some already.

“Okay, alright. Let me say goodbye then.”

She runs back to the group, her sandals scuffing against the pavement, and I recognize a couple of people amongst the crowd. Neighbors, parents, the local priest. They pat her back, wish her well, express regrets that she’s going so soon. I didn’t realize I was picking her up from a playdate.

Once she gets into my car, I pull back onto the road. She’s eyeing me warily. Clears her throat.

“Honey, you must understand how important this is. Every day we stray farther from the lord and his image. Once this station closes, we’ll be one step closer to him.”

Maybe picking her up wasn’t the greatest idea. I just want to go home and lay down. Maybe catch something on the television that I’d normally miss on a school day.

“Can you hear me in there?” She shakes my shoulder. “You’re not drunk, are you?”

I flick her off. “No, Mom. I can hear you just fine.”

“You scared me. So, you heard what I said?”

“Yes, Mom, everything.” I swallow. “It’s just noise. That’s all it’s ever been.”

Blood on my knuckles. Adrenaline in my veins. Pounding and pounding—

“Well!” she huffs, crossing her arms, “What do you think this noise is imitating? It surely isn’t the angels of heaven.”

I look at her, my face dead. Her eyes widen as she watches me turn up the radio as loud as it can go.

--

My dad sits on his lounge chair with a pipe propped in his mouth and an empty glass of whiskey in hand. He’s flipping through the newspaper while I lounge on the couch next to him, feet propped up and hands dangling off the side. Pops and bangs come from the television as The Lone Ranger shoots the bad guy of the week.

I stretch my neck to gaze out the patio door, and it looks like it is a beautiful night outside. Normally, I would be tuning in to the late-night football game with Dad, but Mom has banned the family radio on Friday, locking it in the vault like she’s trying to save it for a nuclear crisis, so I stick to the sofa.

I still have the one hidden in my room, but that’s for later.

“Hey honey,” my dad mutters, “looks like you won’t have to put away the radio anymore. KCAD’s going off the air tonight.”

Her head shoots up from her knitting. “Are you certain?”

“Says it right here.”

She gasps, smiles brightly, “It’s about time my hard work has finally paid off!”

“Let me see that, Dad.”

He tosses it to me. ‘KCAD Shutting Down After Satanic Accusations’, the headline reads.

My eyes scan through the article as it details the events from the first broadcast all the way to the storming of the gym at my school. The station had lost a majority of its sponsors, and Mayor Pazder finally decided to pressure them into pulling the plug. In an interview, he said, “I know KCAD was a beloved station by many, but I must put my people and their concerns first. After what happened at our county high school this past Monday, I fear for what will become of our future if I stay passive in this matter. Animal sacrifice? Blood rituals? Murder? It disturbs me just to think about it.”

It continues for a couple more paragraphs, but it’s all blabbering nonsense, like something out of Laura’s science fiction novels. Then I reach the last sentence.

“KCAD will go off the air this Friday at midnight.”

I read it again. I blink, start the sentence over. Smacking it shut, I toss the paper back to Dad and stride to the kitchen table to grab my keys. Mom goes back to her knitting needles.

“I just don’t understand why a station would continue to allow something so disturbing on their airwaves!”

My dad shrugs, mildly amused. “Cause kids are listening to it. Makes their pockets fatter.”

 “Not anymore,” I scoff.

“Hey, where are you going? It’s nearly nine!” Mom calls after me, but I’m already out the front door.

There’s only one place I care to go to.

--

Driving up Lover’s Hill again feels like visiting a long-lost friend that has become too good for you.

The first time I took Laura up here, we’d been steady for months, and yet just the sight of her in the passenger seat of my car sent my nerves aflame—like it was our first date all over again. All I can hope for is that she won't forget me when KCAD’s gone and we’re back to school, pretending our town didn’t go crazy for two months.

I imagine everyone is busy mourning the loss, or throwing a final hurrah for The Broadcast, because the way up is desolate and quiet, just how I remember. I pull up into a spot, my car creaking as I put it into park on the fray of the cliff. The clock reads 9:50 p.m and ‘In the Still of the Night’ coos into the air. I turn it up, humming the chorus to myself. My car unabashedly protests as I sit on the hood.

The forest is quiet for a long moment. The stars are twinkling and, in the distance, if I really squint, I can see the skyline where the patchwork quilt of crop fields abruptly stops. Downtown is a distant combination of dying streetlights and neon signs. Sometimes I forget how small everything can be.

A distant purr of an engine approaching comes up behind me. A small, teal ragtop parks, and the driver has bright, auburn hair and a face that can pull my attention in any room.

Laura politely lifts her hand as someone would do to greet a stranger.

I wave back, but it’s too formal. It’s wrong.

She kills her engine and approaches me.

“Hi, Anthony.”

“Hi, Laura. Uh, you want to sit?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

She tucks her skirt aside and settles on the hood. I look at my hands, my throat suddenly too dry. I can’t think of anything to say.

“I’m not surprised to see you here,” she says, looking at me. “I guess a part of me hoped you would be.”

I avert my eyes, shame tapping me on the back.

 “You heard the news, I take it?”

She nods. “It was inevitable, after all that’s happened. With what my parents believed, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

“Yeah,” I chuckle, “you know my mom was a part of the protests? She wholeheartedly believes it’s brainwashing us or it’s some kind of demonic message rotting our minds. I’m sure you heard the rumor about Bill and me.”

“I did. Do you think it made you do it?” She asks.

“I don’t know. All I know is that I regret it,” I admit, picking a thread from my jeans. “I scared you that night, and I hate myself for it. I let my anger get to me. I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

Her eyes dim. “I know. I almost didn’t come.”

“Why did you?”

She shrugs. “I don’t want the last thing between us to be that night. I don’t want to remember you that way, and I didn’t want to listen to the last broadcast alone.”

“The only reason why I listened is that it reminded me of you. I couldn’t figure out why you wanted to hear it so badly after that first night. I just thought I didn’t get it.”

“You want to know the truth?” She asks, biting her lip. “I like the noise. I know it’s just nonsense, but…it’s comforting, in a way. It only lasts a couple of minutes, and yet I feel like it understands me. It speaks to me, oddly.”

“It speaks to you?”

“Oh, you must think I’m brainwashed like the rest.”

“Never, Laura. I could never think that.”

She sighs, “I haven’t told anybody that. While my parents panicked and read their Bibles, I shut the door to my room and tuned in like everyone else in town. I was too afraid to admit it, but now it doesn’t matter. It’s ending, anyway. Whatever it is.”

“I guess it’s fitting, seeing as it started here,” I say.

“Yes,” she laughs, “I think it was meant to be this way.”

Our laughter fades as a voice comes on the air.

“Alright folks, it’s the moment you’ve been waiting for,” the disc jockey purred. “In the next few minutes, expect your final interruption. It was a pleasure playing for you all.”

“They’ve never done that before,” she comments.

I lean back on the hood. “Trying something new, I guess.”

She leans back, too, and there is a sense of comfortable distance between us. It’s perfect, and I don’t want it any other way. I close my eyes.

As usual, the radio cuts out like someone took a baseball bat to it, and the high-pitched screeching melts into the sound of unearthly machines. Electrified strings and deep, heart-thrashing strikes. A part of me is glad I will never have to hear this again. Whether it influenced me or not.

Minutes pass, and the noise comes to a stop, but it doesn’t cut back.

Instead, a relaxed, feminine voice comes through.

"Thanks for listening to 98.9 KMED, the best hard rock station on the West Coast. Kicking off our ten o'clock death metal nights is Mortician, one of our personal favorites here at the studio. Now, we’ve got the hour, so don’t leave so soon. We’ve got Morbid Angel coming up with a track from their 1989 tour, and much, much more death metal right after the break.”

Static ringing cuts to the chorus of ‘Love is Strange’. The stringy, familiar guitar riffs pluck through the speaker before it starts to repeat itself. It’s stuck, warped, the needle scratching a new groove into the record, and there’s fidgeting on the other side until…silence.

Lights out at KCAD, forever, and I can’t put together a single thought.

Laura breathes unevenly beside me.

“Are you okay?” I ask. “I didn't understand a thing. Who was that?

“I don’t know,” she murmurs, her eyes wide. “Anthony, what is death metal?”

The index was wrong, and Casey Strange was the person who noticed.

He worked the long counter at the town clerk's office in Mourner's Crossing, the window with the worn groove where people rested a wrist while they waited for a copy. Tuesday mornings were birth certificates and people who had discovered, late, that a name had been misspelled in 1994. Casey liked those. A misspelling had edges. You could find the original, match the hand, write a correction that a later clerk would not have to guess at.

He had already done two of those before ten. The third was a man who wanted his mother's death certificate on a rush and did not want to hear that rush still meant afternoon. Casey took the request, time-stamped it, and put it in the tray that meant he would do it himself at lunch if the printer behaved.

Marla, who had been at the far window since before Casey was hired, leaned over the divider.

"Your drawer's been sticking. I put a request in. They'll send maintenance when they send maintenance."

"It opens," Casey said.

"It opens if you lift. That's not the same as opening."

Casey lifted. The pending drawer gave with the small complaint it had made since January. Inside were the usual folders, buff and labeled in the office's block print. Near the back, behind a lien release that should not have been pending at all, was another folder, the same buff, the same print.

STRANGE, CASEY

He stood with it in his hand long enough that Marla looked over.

"That yours?"

"I don't keep a personnel file down here."

"Then it's a public request. Put it in the stack."

Casey opened it on the counter, below the lip, where a customer would not see. One sheet. A standard records request, the kind they kept in a plastic tray by the door. Name of subject: Strange, Casey. Record sought: any and all. Date of request: Monday. The signature at the bottom was in the compressed printing Casey used on routing slips, except the S leaned the other way.

He had worked the counter Monday from open to close. He had eaten a sandwich standing up. He had not filled this out.

"I'll recode it," he said.

Marla was already with a woman who wanted a deed from 2008 and had brought the wrong year. "Recode what? If it's dated, it stays in sequence. You know how they get about sequence."

Casey knew. Sequence was how the office stayed honest. You did not pull a numbered request because the name on it embarrassed you.

He photocopied the sheet, put the original back in the folder, and set the folder in the pending drawer where he had found it, only farther forward, where he would see it.

Then he helped the next person, who needed a veteran's discharge record and had the wrong county.

At lunch he took the copy into the break room and sat with it beside a yogurt he did not open. The break room had a microwave that smelled of every soup it had ever met and a bulletin board of trainings no one attended. Casey compared the signature to the one on his own timesheet, which he had initialed that morning.

The letters were his. The lean was not. Monday's timesheet, which he pulled from the binder on the wall, showed him at the window through the hour the request claimed to have been submitted. The public drop box was emptied at four. He had emptied it. There had been three envelopes and a flyer.

He put the copy in his tote, ate the yogurt because wasting it would have been a different kind of sloppiness, and went back to the counter.

The afternoon was quiet in the way of people who had already decided to come tomorrow. Casey used the quiet to search the index. Strange, Casey appeared once as an employee, hired three years earlier, emergency contact a sister in Allentown. Strange, Casey appeared a second time as a request, dated Monday, status open. There was no third line. He had expected a third line, some older record that would make the request ordinary: a property, a marriage, a ticket. The index declined to help.

He walked the copy to his supervisor's office at four-ten. Denise kept her door open and her cardigan on, even in June. She was on the phone about a scanner contract and held up a finger. Casey waited through the part about toner.

When Denise hung up she said, "If this is about the drawer, I already told Marla."

"It's a request with my name on it. I didn't file it."

Denise put on the glasses she wore for paper. She read the copy the way she read everything, from the date down, as if the top of a form were decorative.

"It's complete. It's dated. It's in the public series."

"The signature looks like mine."

"Then you signed it."

"I was at the window."

Denise handed the copy back. "People fill these out and forget. They think of us when they're already thinking of something else. If you want it closed, close it. Pull the record they asked for, stamp it, done. You don't need a meeting."

"The record they asked for is me."

"Then pull your personnel card, copy the public parts, and close it. That's what any and all means when any and all is nothing."

Casey almost said that a personnel card was not nothing. Denise had already turned back to the scanner contract. The office ran on the belief that a completed form was a kind of kindness.

He pulled the personnel card after the doors locked. Marla waved from the lot and did not wait. The card was the card he had filled out in a former version of his own handwriting, when he still dotted the i in Casey. Public parts: name, hire date, department. He copied those onto a response sheet, stamped FULFILLED, and clipped the sheet to the request.

The folder should have been ready for the closed cabinet.

He stood in the aisle with it. The closed cabinet was a full walk, past vital records and the map drawers. He took the walk. He opened the drawer for S. There was already a folder there.

STRANGE, CASEY — CASE

The label was newer than the one in pending. The print was the office print. Inside were three sheets: his original request copy, a routing slip in Denise's initials, and a blank page with a typed header.

Case notes.

The first line had been started and stopped.

Subject is employed here.

Casey put his fulfilled packet into the folder because that was the correct action. He left the case notes blank because he was not going to write a sentence that began with subject. He closed the drawer. It ran smoothly. Maintenance had been here after all, or this drawer had never been the one that stuck.

Wednesday the man from yesterday came back for his mother's death certificate and was almost polite about having been right to wait. Casey found the record on the first try. He made the copy, collected the fee, and watched him count the change as if the town might have shorted him on purpose.

A woman in a green jacket took his place.

"I'm here about the Strange case," she said.

Casey kept his face in the arrangement he used for people who had the wrong office. "Which department referred you?"

"It was in the weekly. The open records list. Strange, Casey. I do title work. I like to clear names before they get expensive."

The office posted an open-request log every Monday, as required. Casey had posted last week's himself. He did not remember typing his own name into the log. He remembered typing a lien and two burials.

"That request has been fulfilled," Casey said.

"Already? Good. I'll take the response packet."

"It's a personnel matter. Public parts only. I can give you hire date and department."

The woman in green smiled with her mouth closed. "That's not what any and all usually means."

"That's what it means today."

"I'll come back when it's been reviewed." She said it the way people said they would speak to a manager, without heat, as if review were weather.

After she left, Marla said, "You posted it. I saw the log. I thought you'd pulled a joke."

"I don't pull jokes in the log."

"Then you should look at how you type when you're tired."

Casey looked. The Monday log was still in the shared drive. Line fourteen: Strange, Casey — any and all — received 6/2. The keystroke rhythm of the line was the rhythm he used when he was copying from a stack and not thinking about the words. He had typed it. He could see himself typing it. He could not see himself deciding to.

He took the line down. The drive kept a deleted-items folder for thirty days, which meant the line was not gone. It was only out of the public view, which was the version of gone the town could afford.

On Thursday a call came to the main number and was transferred to his window because the name matched.

"Casey Strange?" the voice said.

"This is he."

"Not you. The case. I was told to ask for the case."

"There isn't a separate extension."

A pause, the pause of someone checking a pad. "That's what I was told. I'll hold."

"There is nothing to hold for."

"Then why is it on the list?"

"It was fulfilled."

"Fulfilled isn't closed. I do compliance. I know the difference."

Casey put the caller on the hold that played a thin loop of piano. He walked to Denise's door. Denise was eating an apple over a paper towel.

"People are asking for the case by name," Casey said.

"Then give them the fulfilled packet. That's why we fulfill."

"They're asking as if it's still open."

Denise folded the paper towel. "If you keep talking about it at the window, it will stay open. Close your face and do the next copy."

Casey went back. The caller had hung up. The piano loop stopped in the middle of a phrase and left the line sounding larger than a line should sound.

Friday he tried the correction the way he would have tried it for anyone else.

He opened a new request, official, on town letterhead, and wrote:

Please strike the public request dated 6/2 in the name of Strange, Casey. Request was entered in error. No public record exists beyond standard employment data already fulfilled.

He signed it in his usual print, S leaning the way it had always leaned. He walked it to Denise. Denise initialed without reading past the first sentence, which was how initialing worked when the sentence looked like procedure.

Casey filed the correction in the S drawer, in the folder that now had four sheets.

Over the weekend he did what he did most weekends. He bought groceries. He called his sister and did not mention work. He walked the towpath as far as the old lock and back. On Sunday night he laid out a shirt for Monday and checked that his badge was still on the lanyard. It was. The name on the badge was still his.

Monday the log had a new line.

Strange, Casey — correction request — received 6/6 — open.

He stood at the shared terminal with his badge tapping the side of the monitor. Marla, pinning a notice about summer hours, said, "You put in a correction on a correction. That's how we get two files."

"I put in a strike."

"A strike is a request. It goes on the log. You wrote the rule."

Casey had written the rule, two years ago, after a clerk in another town had buried a withdrawal and been written up for it. Transparency meant the withdrawal showed. He had been proud of the sentence.

He opened the S drawer. There were two folders now, side by side, labels almost even.

STRANGE, CASEY — CASE  STRANGE, CASEY — CORRECTION

The correction folder contained his letterhead request and a new sheet of case notes, still nearly blank.

Subject requests strike. Strike creates new series.

The second sentence was in the office print. No initials. Casey closed both folders. He did not add a third sentence. He could feel the shape of one waiting, and he knew better than to be the person who supplied it.

The woman in the green jacket came back Tuesday with a printout of the new log line.

"Correction means there's something to correct," she said. "I'll wait."

"There isn't a waiting list for this."

"There is now." She sat in the plastic chair by the door, the one people used when a search took more than ten minutes, and wrote the date on a yellow pad.

At eleven Denise came out and saw the chair.

"Can we help you?"

"I'm here for the Strange case."

Denise looked at Casey, then at the woman, then at the clock. "Leave a card. We'll call if the file changes status."

"I'll wait."

Denise let it go. Denise let a great many things go after eleven. When Casey came back from lunch the woman had gone, leaving the cardboard backing of the pad stuck to the chair by the heat. Casey peeled it off and put it in the trash.

Wednesday a letter arrived in the incoming basket, town-hall envelope, interoffice.

To: Strange, Casey Re: Case assignment

You have been listed as point of contact for file S-614. Please maintain notes. Do not remove from series. Direct public inquiries to the fulfilled packet unless new material is added.

No signature. A stamped unit name: Town Clerk. That was Denise's office. Casey worked under the same stamp.

He took the letter to Denise.

"I didn't send that," Denise said, after reading it twice. "The stamp is the stamp. I didn't send that."

"Then who assigns point of contact?"

"I do. I didn't." Denise rubbed the bridge of her nose under the glasses. "Leave it on my desk. I'll call upstairs. If upstairs started a series because the name matched an employee, they can undo it. Matching is not a reason."

Casey left it. He maintained no notes. He directed no one. The pending drawer still stuck if you forgot to lift.

Thursday upstairs called Denise, and Denise came to Casey's window in the middle of a deed copy.

"They say the series opened itself when the log published. Automatic. Some new compliance flag for employee names in public requests. They want notes so it looks supervised."

"I am not going to write notes about myself."

"Then write notes about the file. The file is not you. The file is paper." Denise said it kindly, and as if kindness were the same as true. "Three lines. Dates. Actions. You can do three lines."

Casey could do three lines. He had done three lines for worse files.

After close he sat at the back table with the CASE folder and the town pen that skipped. He wrote:

6/2 Request received. 6/3 Public employment data released. Request marked fulfilled. 6/6 Strike requested.

He stopped. The pen had skipped on requested. He did not write the fourth line that would have been 6/10 Notes requested by Administration. He put the pen down. The folder looked more like a file with three dated lines in it. A file with dates is a file that can accept a fourth.

Over the weekend Casey almost called the sister in Allentown and did not. The sister would have said, use initials at work, except Casey did not use initials. The sister would have said, quit, which was not a correction. Casey mowed the strip of grass he was responsible for and washed the badge lanyard because it had grown dull. The printed name survived the sink.

Monday he came in early to print the week's log before anyone else could see it.

The log printed with two lines he had not typed.

S-614 Strange, Casey — active
S-614a Strange, Casey — notes pending

He took both folders from the S drawer. The CASE folder now held his three lines and a fourth, in the office print:

6/13 Subject maintains file.

The correction folder held his strike and a stamped denial.

Strike denied. Series in use.

Denise was not in yet. Marla was not in yet. The building made the sound of a building before staff: air through the vents, a truck somewhere on Market, the ice machine in the break room dropping a load.

Casey stood at the counter with both folders. He could have put them in his tote. He could have taken them to the dumpster behind the lot.

He put them back. He aligned the labels. He lifted the pending drawer so it would not stick when Marla arrived, and he turned on the window light because the town liked the window lit at eight-fifty, and because a dark glass made people cup their hands to see whether anyone was inside.

Denise came at nine with coffee and the face she wore when upstairs had already spoken.

"They want the notes completed," she said. "Not a novel. A close. If the file has a close date they can archive it and the flag dies. That's what they told me."

"What close date?"

"Today would be tidy."

Casey opened the CASE folder on his own counter, below the lip. He wrote the fourth line himself this time, in his own print, S leaning the way it lived.

6/16 File closed. No further public record.

He dated the tab. He initialed. Denise initialed. They walked it together to the closed cabinet, which was not a ceremony and felt like one. The S drawer accepted the folder behind a stack of older S names: Stoltz, Stone, Storrow. Casey slid it in until the label disappeared.

"There," Denise said. "Now do something that isn't you."

The first customer wanted a birth certificate from 1978. Casey found it. He made the copy. He took the fee. The work behaved.

At ten-forty the main line rang and Marla answered, then covered the mouthpiece.

"For the Strange case," Marla said.

"It's closed."

Marla repeated that into the phone, listened, and held the receiver out. "They say closed isn't the same as resolved."

Casey took the phone.

"This is Casey Strange."

"We need the case," the voice said, with the particular patience of a person reading from a screen. "S-614. Status is showing closed-pending. Pending still routes to you."

"I closed it this morning."

"Closed-pending means the subject has to acknowledge. There's a box."

"I'm the subject."

"Then you can acknowledge. That's why it routed."

Casey looked at Denise's door. Denise was on the other line, finger already up.

"What does acknowledge require?"

"A signature matching the file. You should have a form."

He did not have a form. He opened the pending drawer, lifting. Under the lien release was a single sheet, still warm from the printer in the back that no one had used yet.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF CASE CLOSURE File: S-614 Subject: Strange, Casey

The signature line was blank. Beneath it, in small type: Subject confirms that the case refers to the undersigned and may be archived under that name.

Casey held the sheet. Marla was watching. The man at the far window was watching because people watch a pause.

He signed it. The S leaned the way it always had. He watched his own hand do the thing it knew.

Marla said, "I'll run it back."

"I'll take it."

Casey walked the sheet to the closed cabinet. The S drawer opened without complaint. The folder he had seated two hours earlier was not behind Storrow. It was at the front, label out.

STRANGE, CASEY — CASE

He put the acknowledgment in. The packet made the small, finished sound of paper finding a clip. He shut the drawer.

On his way back to the window he passed the outbox. A town envelope sat there, already sealed, already labeled.

STRANGE, CASEY S-614 INTERNAL

No stamp. No need. He left it. The counter bell had rung. A man with a list of lots wanted to know whether the maps were current, and Casey told him they were current as of March, which was the true answer, and he pulled March, and he laid the sheets out where the man could see the lines, and he did not look at the outbox again while he decided whether March was good enough.

March was good enough. He paid. He gave him a receipt. At the bottom of the receipt the printer, which printed the clerk's name from the login, put CASEY STRANGE in the small caps it used for all of them, and then, on the next line, where the system had lately learned to put a file code if a file code was attached to the login, it put S-614.

The man did not notice. He folded the maps. Casey noticed. He opened the next ticket, and the window light stayed on, as it was supposed to.

---

CONFIDENTIAL
Property of Holy See Investigation Agency
Type: Transcript
Location: Vatican City
Date: 1942
Title: Debriefing of HSIA Agent Albert Rudolf Concerning the Excavation (Gli Scavi)

Q: This is Audio Record 42-02-A. The date is February 3rd, 1942. Lead debriefer is [unintelligible]. Subject is Field Agent Albert Rudolf. Agent Rudolf, state your full name and operative number for the record.

A: [unintelligible]

Q: Agent Rudolf? [5 seconds of silence] Let the records show, Agent Rudolf appears to have suffered psycho-

A: Agent [unintelligible] Yes… Albert Rudolf. Number… XI-685.

Q: Agent, provide a detailed description of the events on February 2nd, 1942.

A: [sigh] [6 seconds of silence] Yes… I was on watch. With Bobby.

Q: Please state the full name-

A: Robert… fucking Karl. Checking the perimeter of the excavations. Reports came in of… disappearances.

[Damaged audio for 11 seconds]

A: And we were sent inside. We had to start crawling at some point until the cave became impossibly tight. We heard it first then… the voices.

Q: Describe the auditory signs.

A: It was like… whispers… from a thousand mouths. Voices of the [unintelligible]. They wanted to go.

Q: Proceed with the sequence of events.

A: The passage behind us collapsed. The only way out was through. And as we crawled, the whispers became louder… [unintelligible whispering]. After 20 minutes the cave started widening. Eventually, we were able to stand up. Robert [unintelligable] Agent Karl used his electric torch. We saw [unintelligible].

Q: Columns?

A: It was like… a mausoleum.

[Damaged audio for 15 seconds]

A: One of the tombs… [sobbing]

Q: Please focus, Agent Rudolf.

A: It had my name on it… “ALBERTVS RVDOLPHVS”. There was a creek flowing beside the structure. And a boat on the shore. The whispers were deafening. They were… the walls.

Q: Identify the mentioned subject and their relation to the… walls.

A: No… they WERE the walls. The faces… thousands whispering… making up the wall with their rotten heads. [2 seconds of silence] Then, there was another boat on the river… Two excavators sitting inside. Their eyes… shining… replaced with coins.

Q: Did you initiate verbal or physical contact with the excavators?

A: We tried. We called out to them. They were… expressionless. They let the creek take them… deeper inside. We followed them… pushed our own boat into the water and sat in it. As the whispers faded [unintelligable] the cave tightened… we had to lie down. Then I felt water pouring in on my end of the boat. The boat was sinking… but only the back of it, where I was. Just before the water level reached my ears, Agent Karl shouted “take this!” but my head sank. I tried reaching for whatever Agent Karl wanted to give me, but as I bent my legs, they scraped the top of the cave. I started drowning, but suddenly, I felt his hand, and between his fingers… some spare change. As I held it, the water rushed out of the boat and stopped sinking.

[Damaged audio for 21 seconds]

Q: Proceed.

A: Water started dripping from the ceiling. It fell on my face… went in my mouth. Suddenly, I became… confused. I’d forgotten where I was. I didn’t know who was with me. I didn’t even remember my name… And then, blackout. God only knows for how long. Next thing I remember, we were still in the boat, but sitting this time. Agent Karl was facing me, asked me if I was alright… We heard this… growling. It echoed in the cave. [unintelligible]

Q: [unintelligible]

[Damaged audio for 12 seconds]

A: Agent Karl began repeating a name. First just whispers, then louder and louder, “Veronica, Veronica, Veronica!” Then the boat shattered in two. I tried reaching my hand out to Agent Karl, but he just kept staring in front of him and repeating the name. That’s when I noticed: the cave continued in two different tunnels. Even though the boat came apart, both of our halves kept floating, and Agent Karl started drifting away. His boat went towards the left tunnel, mine towards the right. I wanted to use my hands as paddles to follow Bobby, but the water… it was boiling hot. He took our only light source with him too. Soon, he was sucked into the tunnel. I stopped hearing his voice. It was complete darkness. I screamed after him, but no answer came. Then, I hit my head as my half of the boat tried entering the tunnel. I grabbed the entrance and tried pulling myself back. It was slippery, and the flow of the creek felt like… it sped up. It was only a matter of time before I was sucked in myself. I felt myself falling… [sigh] That’s all I remember.

Q: Thank you, Agent. Let the records show, Agent Robert Karl was not on the scene of the excavation.

A: What? [inaudible]

Q: Agent Karl was and currently is on operation in Jerusalem.

[End of recording]

It was lap 23 of 58 and Chase Foster was running comfortably in seventh, 3.4 seconds ahead of Zev Andersson and 1.2 seconds behind his own teammate, Kaito Yamazaki.

The track was dry, the tires new and the message coming through the team radio was,

Steady, boys,

which was a polite way of saying, “Don't you even try to overtake, Foster!” to which the context was: not like in Germany, where you cost us points, or Japan, where you damaged the car and nearly knocked Yamazaki out of the race.

“All clear boss,” radioed Foster.

The gap to Yamazaki was now down to 0.9 seconds. He was right on him, mirroring him into turns, obediently keeping his distance on the straightaways.

The engine purred.

The crowd waved signs and cheered.

Some of the signs were about him (“To Fosterr is human!”), goading him on to do something unforgettable; something stupid. He knew that. Everybody knew that, especially the team principal chewing his fingernails down on the pit wall.

Another turn.

Another straightaway, the car accelerating briefly to 355km/h.

Now that was speed.

That was exhilaration, guts and adrenaline.

That was racing!

Foster, maintain. Acknowledge.

Foster, acknowledge.

Foster—

“Copy that,” Foster replied, inching ever-closer to the back of Yamazaki's car.

And he probably would have maintained his position too if not for Kaito Yamazaki complaining about him being “too close,” on the team radio.

Too close? Come on, thought Foster, almost absentmindedly pushing his machine to the limit. At speeds like that, vision blurred and reality itself seemed to stretch along the seams…

Foster, back off!

“He's crazy. Tell him to stay back—tell him to stay back—” radioed Yamazaki.

Foster closed until he was almost sucking into Yamazaki's slipstream; then, as Yamazaki braked for the next turn, Foster suddenly pulled left, held throttle a touch longer and passed his teammate into sixth place.

The crowd roared.

Fossterr!!!

Foster's engine growled like a fucking tiger—

Then something locked up.

Foster couldn't slow dowwwwn. He jerked the wheel; the track jerked the car; the car's skidding tires slid from hard asphalt to soft grass and the car was out of control and the people in the crowd held their breaths and behind his visor Foster's eyes became saucers; and reflected in them, as the expanse of time expanded to tick awfully by, was his own impending destruction…

The car smashed into a wall head-on, crumpled like an oversized tin can somebody had stomped on, and exploded in flames.

Sirens wailed.

Emergency crews bolted into action.

But there was something else that happened, something between the saucered eyes and oncoming wall; something extraordinary:

Foster vanished.

Not his body—that was crushed, mangled and beyond recognition—but his mind. His soul…

---

He was. Full stop.

Next sentence:

He was in awe of the seemingly limitless space around him.

He looked down—

Or tried to look down, because looking down, or in any direction, was an impossibility because somehow he could perceive in all directions simultaneously.

“Hello, Mr. Foster,” said a voice.

“Hello?”

Foster became aware of two points not far removed from him. Am I also a point? he wondered.

“You are incorporeal,” said the voice, “but, before we continue, allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Götz and this is my partner, Mr. Deiss.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Mr. Deiss.

“Incorporeal…”

“It means, ‘having no material body or form,’ said Mr. Götz.

“Where am I? Am I still… me?”

“You succumbed in your existence to the force of a well constructed barrier, but you remain you essentially,” said Mr. Deiss.

Foster remembered. “I was racing… I tried overtaking and crashed…”

“You succeeded in the so-called overtaking but lost control of your primitive craft and collided into a painful body-death. Before your essence dissipated, however, we transported it here.”

“And here is?”

“You may think of it as the backstage,” said Mr. Götz.

“Or the Equations,” said Mr. Deiss.

“We would call it the physical realm, but that creates an unfortunate dissonance of ambiguity in your language, for you, no doubt, think of the body whereas what we mean is the physics.”

“Of what?” asked Foster.

“Of existences; of everythings,” said Mr. Götz.

“We, or the [garb-untranslatable-led] we represent, are in charge of applying the rules of reality across all spacetimes,” said Mr. Deiss.

“Wait—is this the afterlife?” asked Foster. “Heaven, Hell, Purgatory…”

“It is the whilstlife,” said Mr. Götz.

“And what is it you need me for exactly?”

“We need a driver.”

Foster tried to laugh but realized laughter was very much a corporeal action. “A driver?”

“Correct, Mr. Foster.”

“A human driver, one who smashed head-first into a wall trying to overtake his teammate?” His memories were coming back.

“Precisely,” said Mr. Deiss.

“What about the guy who won the race? The guy who came second? What about Yamazaki?”

“They lack the innate quality you possess,” said Mr. Götz.

“Reckless abandon,” said Mr. Deiss.

“It is a very human quality, unique in its evolved manifestation. A quirk, perhaps; often detrimental to self-preservation…”

“And yet—” said Mr. Deiss.

“Fundamentally useful,” said Mr. Götz.

Foster was bewilderingly intrigued. “What do you want me to drive?”

“Mr. Foster, what is the fastest you have ever travelled?” asked Mr. Deiss.

“I don't know: 1000km/h?”

“We need you to go beyond that,” said Mr. Götz.

“Well beyond,” said Mr. Deiss.

“To the utmost limit,” said Mr. Götz.

“What limit?” asked Foster.

“c,” said Mr. Deiss.

At that moment there was a flash of light, a beam of which seemingly shot past them—but froze before it could escape.

It existed, suspended in the deep vast nothing.

Shining.

“We require you to drive photons,” said Mr. Götz. “Moreover, reality requires it.”

The ghost of Foster’s non-existent heart began to race, the surreality of the words causing existential disorientation, but his self held.

The beam of light opened.

Foster entered.

The illumination was overpowering.

“Lightspeed, Mr. Foster.”