The Tooth Collector (and Other Tales of Terror) (15 page)

People had always done things for Triston. No
doubt, the kid had lived in a world of compliments and ass-kissery.
But lately, it was like people were wound so tightly around his
finger, they were all ready and willing to snap.

Fans and professionals alike turned on each
other, competing for the chance to be his personal lackey. The
whole world had fallen under his charm. Except Arty.

But what choice did he have? He couldn't walk
away. The act was making too much money.

They took the elevator to ground level and
made their way through the lobby as Arty typed a text message to
the cleaner. “We have a mess,” it said. He pressed the send button
and within seconds a reply came through: “OK”.

“The cleaner”, as they had dubbed him, was a
nameless man with a long history in organized crime. No one knew
what he looked like. No one needed to. Triston paid him well to
remain anonymous. Having been provided with a duplicate room key,
as always, he'd be there shortly to dispose of the mess. Just
another ritual of the tour.

The rock god looked at the awaiting crowd
through the glass of the lobby doors. A throng of fans and
paparazzi pulsed against the building. A chorus of swoons erupted
as the crowd caught sight of their prize. Cameras flashed. Girls
shrieked.

Triston's bodyguard stepped beside him,
blocking the crowd's view through the glass. He was a dark-skinned
man in sun glasses whose bear-sized chest threatened to burst the
seams of his fully stretched T-shirt. The fans booed, begging for
another glimpse.

Six security guards cleared a path to the
limo. They tamed the mob of love-stricken girls and amateur
photographers with reminders of the concert in store. “Please stand
back,” they instructed, arms held out like a gang of crosswalk
attendants. “Let's get him to the show in one piece, folks.”

Triston Seever exited the building, led by
his large bodyguard. What was his name again? The rock god thought
about it, but he couldn't recall. In a sense, his life was an
endless tour. Names became hard to remember.

“Stay back. Give the man some space.”

Girls reached their hands for Triston,
quivering if they grazed him. Some of their young, pretty eyes
glistened as they fought back tears. Other girls were openly
crying, their cheeks flush and wet. “I love you,” a distant voice
screamed from the far edge of the crowd.

The rock god rolled his eyes behind his
diamond-studded designer sunglasses. There was a time when groupies
would be flashing bare breasts right now. When his band mates would
be chugging whiskey and puking in the hotel hedges. Lost in a sea
of doe-eyed teenage faces, the rock god longed to be himself
again.

His music had grown heavy over time. From its
humble beginnings, it had morphed into something chaotic: a brutal
reflection of the emotion he wished he could feel, a mix of shrieks
and guttural screaming, shredding guitars and tribalesque drum
beats. He loved the thrill of performing, the feel of adrenaline as
it surged through his veins. He loved the moment when the music
would stall, when the audience would wait with bated breath. He
loved to see their fists pump into the air, heads banging when the
beat kicked back in. That's how gods were meant to be
worshiped.

A rage burned in his gut like a double-shot
of Everclear. The world didn't want rock 'n' roll any more. The
world wanted Triston Seever.

They wanted songs produced by a team of
marketing experts; carefully planned dance moves. A pretty boy who
spent two hours in makeup and ten minutes writing lyrics. They
wanted machine-made melodies and commercial endorsements. The heart
of rock 'n' roll had been ripped to shreds by Corporate
America.

The rock god seethed, grinding Triston
Seever's perfect teeth together as he approached the open door of
the stretch limousine. A young woman with wild eyes ran past
security, reaching for him. He managed to keep his flawless
hairstyle intact as he sidestepped her and slipped into the car.
Settling into the leather seat, he smiled and said, “Tonight's the
night.”

Arty nodded, helping himself to the mini
bar.

“Did you get my band together?”

Arty nodded a second time, polishing off a
miniature bottle of scotch. He reached for another without so much
as glancing up at the pop star. Breaking the seal and unscrewing
the lid, he answered, “Yes, they'll be backstage when you
arrive.”

“Perfect.” The rock god flashed a flawless
smile and turned to watch the crowd grow smaller through the tinted
window of the limousine. He fished a drink out of the mini bar and
took a swig, still smirking as if privy to a joke that no one else
had heard.

Arty gulped. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned
his collar, and raised a third bottle to his lips with shaky
hands.

Raucous laughter echoed through the dressing
room, punctuated by the sound of breaking glass. “Control
yourselves!” screamed the rock god. He scowled at the men, who
regarded him with bewildered expressions as if he'd spoken in
tongues. (Although, chances were this group of men understood the
dead languages much easier than the concept of taking orders.)

There was a moment of silence as the rock
god's guests eyed him with intense curiosity. Each face was
devastatingly handsome. All of these men could pass for models. The
gods were no strangers to vanity and took pride in selecting their
bodies.

Another glass shattered against the wall.
Jagged pieces sprinkled the carpet. “Sorry,” said a man with icy
blue eyes and chestnut hair. “I couldn't resist. I'm very fond of
this
crystal
, as humans call it.” He studied the glassware
in his hand. “Such a lovely breaking noise.” He reared his arm back
as if to chuck another dish, but thought better of it, setting it
on the counter.

At the bar, three men drank from a bottle of
Grey Goose vodka, laughing among themselves. Two were blonde; the
other had ebony hair that shimmered like obsidian atop his
handsome, bronze face. Their eyes sparkled with energy, their
chiseled features undeniably beautiful. The kind of beauty that,
over the centuries, had inspired countless artists to sculpt and
lay paintbrush to canvas.

The rock god observed their merriment with a
hidden disdain. These gods were
nothing
like himself.
So
shallow
, he thought.
Happy to float around the fringes of
the physical world, basking in adulation and prayers.

On their rare visits to Earth, the other gods
were predictable in selecting a human. They always managed to find
a perfect male specimen. This allowed them to indulge in the
pleasures of the flesh without so much as putting forth an effort.
Their amusement with human life was never more than skin deep. The
rock god didn't understand this way of thinking. Still, he needed
their help.

There was one thing all gods had in common, a
similarity among them. They were hungry. He had never met another
god who wasn't ravenous for human souls, and tonight that would
come in very handy.

“Is everyone prepared?” he asked. “I need you
alert for tonight's show.” He pointed to the half-empty bottle of
vodka. “Can we put that away? Just for now?” He expected a protest,
but to his surprise, the dark-haired man pushed the bottle aside.
No one made an effort to stop him.

“Do you think we can pull this off?” asked a
god who had chosen a blonde-haired, blue-eyed vessel. “How many
humans will there be?”

“Thousands,” the rock god said. He approached
the others and slid onto a stool. “And yes, we can pull this
off.”

The dark-haired man opened his mouth to
debate it, but an elder god cut him short. “Their numbers are of no
concern to us,” said the elder. “Our power is too great for them to
fight. Together, we are unstoppable.”

“Excellent,” said the rock god. His lips
curled into a smile. “Bon appetit, my friends.”

The fog machines ran at full blast. Smoke
swirled in the footlights, rising up to hide the stage beneath a
cloudy veil of mystery that pulsated and glowed as colored lights
blinked in and out, in and out. A steady hum of voices filled the
arena, the ear-splitting effect of thousands of simultaneous
conversations. Dance music pumped from the sound system. The smoke
and light show on stage moved to the beat.

When the soundtrack stopped, so did the
chatter. The crowd shifted into an awed silence. All eyes looked
toward the stage. A silhouette emerged and approached the
forefront. The lights brightened, and the smoke began to clear.

A digital monitor the size of a billboard
displayed Triston Seever's latest album cover for a moment and then
panned to a live video feed. The camera zoomed in on his face.

When he smiled, the close-up shot of his
flawless teeth and sultry lips triggered a cacophony of shrieks and
whistles. “Thank you,” he said, the mic held close to his lips.

“Hello, Bakersfield! How are you tonight?” A
fresh round of cheers erupted from all sides. It washed over the
arena, a tidal wave of human noise.

“I've got a surprise for you tonight!” He
turned to watch four men step forward through the thinning clouds
of smoke. The live video feed panned to each of their handsome
faces. “Please welcome my new back up singers and dancers! Give it
up for them!” The crowd hooted and hollered their approval.

The first song set in—a rhythm and blues
beat. It was nothing like the music that had spawned it, lacking
the passion that had driven the original blues singers to pour
their hearts into a song.
Nevermind
, he thought.
The time
has come.

He smiled at the crowd one last time. Then,
he turned to his crew of “singers and dancers” (though he wasn't
sure they could sing or dance at all) and slowly nodded his head.
The five men on stage held their arms out wide and opened their
pretty mouths.

Nothing happened. The background music
continued to pump from the speakers, but no vocals accompanied it.
Feedback squealed through the sound system, and the audience
recoiled.
There must be a problem with the microphones
, they
thought. Any moment, they would hear the harmonized voices of the
pop stars joining with the rhythm of the track.

People began to notice that the men on stage
stood motionless, not even attempting to dance. They just stood
there with their arms outstretched and their mouths agape. Their
lips did not move.

Audience members cried out. Wild, panicked
screams filled the air. Several members of the crowd began to
convulse. Their muscles tightened, spine stiff, and they fell over
like dominoes in haphazard rows. They hit the ground, one by one,
eyes wide and fists clenched in agony. Some writhed in sticky
puddles of spilled soda; some thrashed wildly against the
seats.

The audience members who were still standing
knelt down and tried to ask questions of the fallen: “What's wrong?
What's happening?” Many of them were dialing 9-1-1, or already had
the phone pressed to their ear.

Tears streamed down the cheeks of the ones
who suffered seizures, but their screaming died out as the pain
seemed to reach a peak. They managed only to squeak and wheeze as
they lay helpless, some of them pinned beneath the weight of
others, piled like corpses on the floor.

Then, their lips parted. Hundreds of mouths
opened in unison as their limbs thrashed spasmodically, eyes wide.
From inside their mouths, a soft light glowed, spiraling up and up
into the air. It grew brighter as the whirlwind whipped faster and
faster, ascending toward the roof.

The audience members who weren't in shock
started to realize what was happening. Their eyes settled first on
their fallen friends and family, then on the beams of light pouring
from their mouths. The light seemed to pulsate with energy. It spun
from their lips like miniature tornadoes, stretching up over their
heads. Hundreds of light beams, intersecting to form larger streams
that headed straight for the stage—five of them, to be exact—one
for each man on stage.

A cyclone of energy was being siphoned from
the mouths of the seizure-stricken victims, straight into the
mouths of the pop stars. The audience members collectively gulped.
Some cried out, some blathered to 9-1-1 dispatchers on their
phones, but all of them began turn their heads, looking for an
exit.

The pop stars stood in their expensive
designer outfits, flawless hair styles unaffected by the breeze
that whistled around them. A sinister energy emanated from their
triangular formation as they stood with their arms out wide, hands
pointed at one another as if closing a circle of power. Omnipotent,
otherworldly energy crackled from their fingertips, linking them
together. Their eyes turned white, and the video feed on the
big-screen captured the scene with ghastly, high-definition detail.
People screamed and ran for the exits.

The first wave of injured humans quit
breathing. The remaining ones stopped mid-run as violent
convulsions rattled their bodies. They dropped, flopping like bated
fish where they fell. They became too racked with pain to
articulate so much as a yelp, and soon, even their choking and
gasping ceased as the souls were ripped from their bodies.