Among the Living (16 page)

They are Corpse for a Day, and they write what they want when they want, and the record company allows it. Still, they like to point out in interviews and on stage that they do what the fuck they want. They actually get to do what the fuck they want as long as their music keeps selling. If sales go down the tube, they can say adios to their meal ticket, not that it is much money to begin with. Half the time, the guys don’t even know if they will have enough to pay rent on apartments they never see.

Grinder wants to scare the shit out of people with the new album. He has an old book of demonology he picked up in Rotterdam. It has a faded leather-bound cover around yellowing pages. Most of the stuff inside is about as scary as a Harry Potter book. Allegedly, it was written a few hundred years ago but had none of the modern-day shock values. So he draws inspiration from the pictures, which are quite disturbing. Men being forced to serve demons who bear giant cocks. Boys kneeling in the dirt with their asses in the air while they call upon a God who isn’t there and women bleeding from their cunts but begging for more. The entire book is ridiculous, but the fans love this stuff.

The first disc wasn’t easy to sell, and they had been forced to cut back on some of the shock lyrics due to, as the exec called it, ‘current climate.’ Once they outsold half the artists at the tiny label, they released the second album the way they wanted to. It was shocking, bloody, and gory. The guys go by their stage names and sometimes cover themselves in pig’s blood for the encore.

Grinder is happy with the band. The drummer has been a revolving door, but the current guy, Deathpounder, is a champ. Even though he played for a jazz band at one time, he took to the double bass drum like he was born in one. His real name is Wil Anders, but the rest of the band came up with his stage name. Wil just laughed and proudly sported it from day one. He is from fucking Minnesota, of all places, but his name sounds European in a Dethklok sort of way. Only he doesn’t have a cool accent. It’s still amusing to see the fans assume he is from Sweden or somewhere like that.

Technical, that’s what the critics call their music, shocking and still technical with complex guitar riffs and math metal-inspired skins. However there is no pretense at playing anything that sounds vaguely political. There is no overarching theme dealing with issues in the world. They don’t focus lyrics on clever innuendo, they don’t sing about hot chicks or how cool drugs are. They stick to what they love, and that is horror.

Their first single, Corpse for a Day, based on the band name, dealt with a guy who died and woke up in his grave—only to suffocate. They got the audience into the chorus night after night. Grinder would reach down, hock up a ball of phlegm, leave it in the back of his throat and then bellow the words over and over like Cookie Monster from Hell:

CORPSE! FOR! A! FUCKING! DAY!

Sid helped write most of the first album. He plays bass, and his stage name is Xerdruss, a name he claims he stole from a demon. Grinder and Sid used to get along better. Lately Sid has been undermining the band, trying to get them to change their sound so they can sell more albums.

Grinder will have none of that. They started almost a decade ago with the idea of making their own music, and he’ll be damned if they are going to change now. The band goes along with Grinder because he is the leader, the front man. He is responsible for getting up on stage and being the face of Corpse for a Day.

If they have an off night, he will rally the boys, whip the crowd into action. If things are really dull, he will dive right into the mosh pit and show the locals how to do that shit correctly. Nor is he shy. If the girls in the front are hot, he’ll get them to flash some titties, which is about as cliché as it gets, but who is Grinder to argue with tradition? Rock and roll, man. Rock and fucking roll.

Sid is getting on his nerves; every night seems to end with a fight. There was a time when they would end each set, go backstage to hang out while a few fans came to worship them, call them musical geniuses. He and Sid would pass a bottle of tequila, maybe share a girlfriend of one of the fans. Have her on her knees servicing them while they drank and drank, until they were staggering around talking about how they were going to rule the metal world.

Now they are cold to each other with the exception of on stage, where they put their differences aside and play together like the old friends they should be.

The lead guitarist, Allen Wise, goes by the name Bloody Axe. He can wield an ax too—the six-string kind. He pumps out chunky riffs night after night, and in the studio, he always pulls out memorable leads and tight rhythm sections to match the macabre lyrics.

Eric is a rhythm guitarist who tours with them. He is very professional and can also serve as a guitar technician if the other isn’t able to make a gig. In fact, he knows more about guitars than just about anyone Grinder has ever met.

He is older than the rest of the band, mid-thirties and a veteran of the metal scene for fifteen of those. He has played all over the world with bands bigger than life and little ones like Palforce, Enslaught Enslaught! and Diedrer & Blood. Grinder is always grateful to have him along, because when the shit hits the fan, he and Sid locked in an argument over some petty crap, Eric steps up as the adult of the band and offers a solution. Of course, he usually offers at the top of his lungs, which are considerably louder than either of theirs. He also knows when to shut the fuck up and let the band sort shit out themselves. If Sid ever leaves, he plans to ask Eric to join full time, and they will tour without a bass player if they have to.

Eric has the shortest hair of the band. It falls to his shoulders, and there are hints of gray, so they have him dye it before going on tour. He is craggy faced, like a younger version of Alice Cooper, but when he gets on stage, all that fades away and he bangs his head harder than anyone else in the band. He was reluctant to take a stage name like the others had, so they’ve taken to calling him Afterbirth, since he joined the band long after they formed.

Grinder coughs loudly a couple of time and even hits the metal wall of his bunk with his fist so the sound rattles around the bus. But Sid still snores like a chainsaw across the way. Grinder slips on his headphones and sets the iPod to shuffle. A Metallica song from the eighties comes on, and at once he loses himself in the old school.

* * *

The club is a dive with black walls and a pair of bars, one near the stage and one in the back of the club where they sell Pabst Blue Ribbon and watered-down Jack. Grinder tastes the latter and is not impressed.

The place is done up like a scene from Hell with devils on the walls in the bar and the main floor. Sid had looked at the sign hanging over the back of the space, which read ‘Capacity 799,’ and scoffed. The show is a sellout, though. They always sell out the little venues. Grinder doesn’t get Sid’s anger. They make enough money to get by; none of them has a family except Eric, but he has been on the road so long, he doesn’t know any other life. They’ve come a long way in just a few short years; early on, they would have been lucky to open for a local band to eighty people in a tiny club.

There are rumors of playing some festivals in Europe next year, getting on stage in front of thousands of people … So what is his problem? It would be the perfect road to Sid’s dream of commercial success. They could play their music on their terms and still blast through a set for a sea of fans.

They have three full-time roadies, and the guys are doing their best to move all the equipment inside as quickly as possible. The band is always involved as well, dragging in crates, amps, cords, bags of picks. But only Wil moves his own stuff. Always has. He is downright anal about who touches his gear, and that is fine with the rest of the guys. He sets up his own drums, tunes them and will only let a technician sit at his kit after the opening bands have played and they are getting ready to take the stage.

Sid drops one of his amps on the stage with a thump night next to one of Grinder’s PA amps and sighs loudly.

“‘Sup, dude?” Grinder asks. He likes to keep it cool before a show so they play together like the friends they should be.

“Same shit, brotha.”

“I got us a bottle of Wild Turkey stashed away. The bar guy looked away at the wrong minute.” He chuckles.

“Sweet. Well, I gotta get more shit unloaded.” Then he walks away, and Grinder wonders how much longer before Sid leaves the band. Life on the road can be rough, but it’s the ultimate rush when the night arrives and they are on stage for the fans. It’s what they got into the business for. Sure the albums sell, mostly in digital format unless the rat thieving fucks steal their music. They make most of their money from playing gigs. Selling merchandise like thirty-dollar shirts they get for two bucks from Taiwan. Stickers, belt buckles, all that stuff adds up in their bank accounts.

There were a few endorsement deals, especially for Axe, who likes a certain guitar manufacturer. They worked out a special deal with him so he only plays theirs on stage, and he has photos in magazines and on the web with the same guitar. Grinder would love a deal like that; maybe one will turn up after the third disc comes out.

He walks back into the July sun, and sweat starts dripping down his forehead right away. His long blond hair is back in a full ponytail, but it’s still hot as hell on his neck. He grabs some more crates and hauls them inside with the rest of the guys.

A green camouflaged truck putters along the road next to the tour bus, and Grinder stops to stare. The truck rounds the corner slowly, then is gone.

“The fuck is that all about?”

“I heard it was some drill,” Phil the sound tech says. He’s covered in sweat and generally looks like shit. Working in the sun, hauling equipment around with a pounding hangover is a bitch. “Some local said the city is filled with them. Army dudes on every corner, sounds like a song in the making, eh Grinder?”

Everyone calls him by his stage name, his alter ego. He refuses to answer to his real name, Duane Jones, or as he used to refer to it, the most boring name in the world. It all goes back to the lifestyle he fully embraces.

“What, the Russians about to invade?” Eric says as he walks by with a rack under each arm.

“Dude, the fucking Russians couldn’t invade a village in Africa if they tried, that’s some old eighties thinking. Like that movie where the kids hide in the mountains and kill the bad guys that try to take over America.” Sid laughs.

“Red Dawn!”

“Yeah, that’s the one. Hey, one of you guys try to find us a copy the next time you’re at some shit hole video place. I want to watch it on the road.”

Great, Grinder thinks, a shitty old movie played on the shitty nineteen-inch TV. Rock and roll, man. Rock and fucking roll.

Lester is getting worried about his rifle ammo. He does have a shitload of rounds for the Glock, but they won’t last forever if the things start coming over the fence.

Angela strolls down the stairs, tugging on a black shirt that looks like it is meant for an aerobics class. A pair of dark blue pants that come to her knees complete her ninja garb. Like the shirt, the pants are skintight, and Les stares at her ass when she goes into the kitchen. She has her hair in a big ponytail poking out the back of a dark ball cap, and it looks pretty fucking hot.

He joins her in the kitchen and runs the water into a glass. They don’t have power, but at least that works. The water isn’t exactly warm, but it is a far sight from being cold. He drinks it anyway, imagining that the glass is also filled with ice cubes.

“I’ll go over first. If there is any trouble, I want you to shoot at anything that gets too close. I’ll call out when I’m on my way back, so don’t shoot me.”

“Okay.”

“You just stay on the side of the house and don’t let them see you. Stay in the shadows. The moon is on the other side of the house for now, so you should be in the clear.”

“Got it,” she replies and raises the pistol in both hands like she is in a Charlie’s Angels movie. “Are there many out there?”

“I can’t tell. It’s too goddamn dark. I can hear some shuffling around, but I think the couple of bodies out front taught them a lesson. And that lesson is: stay the fuck away from the dude with the machine gun.” He suppresses a chuckle and moves to the side of the house. The window slides up silently, and he fiddles with the screen for a minute before it pops loose. He carefully pulls it inside and then pokes his head out.

The moon hangs low, a tiny sliver of white that does little to illuminate the ground. At least there aren’t a bunch of clouds pouring rain on him tonight.

He hops onto the sill, spins around, slides his body over the edge and drops to the ground. He lands flat on his feet in a pile of dead leaves that crunch like a bag of potato chips. He doesn’t move for a half-minute, just waits and listens, but it is quiet. Not even a cricket is chirping, which isn’t that strange; they usually go quiet at the first hint of noise. But when is the last time he heard them?

When no deaders rise up from the ground and tear him to shreds, he moves the couple of feet to the fence, hand held out so he can stop when he touches it. The night is muggy. So muggy that he feels like he is in the bathroom after a shower. The smell is earthy with an undertone of dead leaves. Les isn’t exactly the gardening type. They don’t even own a lawn mower. Once the grass got too high, the summer rolled in and most of it dried up to a brown and yellow patchwork carpet.