Panicus Satanicus
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Synopsis
From the author of Zodiac.
Cocaine Crucifix is touring its way across the country, spreading heavy metal mayhem from one venue to the next.
After their lead singer takes off, along with their van and equipment, the other band members find themselves stranded in the middle of nowhere with no way to civilization.
Meanwhile, a mysterious cult in an isolated town prepares themselves for a unique sacrifice, a long-awaited event to bring about their Ascension.
With the band acting as the catalyst for the cult’s ritual, they find themselves in a battle heavier than any song they’ve played and a fight for their lives … and souls.
Release date: October 1, 2022
Publisher: Blue Ruin Publishing
Print pages: 157
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Panicus Satanicus
Tom Duffy
CHAPTER ONE
Steven, the asshole, quit the band halfway through the tour. Not that this was anything close to professional. Four guys jammed into a van, two in the back getting knocked around by equipment, barely making it to gigs, running on fumes, everyone crammed into a single motel room – this wasn’t a tour, it was a nightmare. But Cocaine Crucifix was about nightmares, so the band convinced themselves that they mind. As long as they got their drinks, maybe a lay here and there, and the venue owners didn’t try to short-change their pay, everything was bloody moonlight.
Now there was this shit.
“How are you going to get home? I know I have more money in my pocket than you, and it sure as shit wouldn’t buy a one-way ticket to hell, let alone New York.” Jon slammed his guitar case shut and put it in the back of the van. He wanted it out of the way in case fists were thrown.
“I already have a ticket waiting for me. I called my folks. It was the last thing I wanted to do, but it was better than spending one more second with you three egomaniacs.”
“Egomaniacs? This coming from our lead fucking singer who always needs the bed because the floor hurts your back and affects your shitty vocals.”
“So now my singing is shitty? Keep at it, Jon. This is exactly why I’m out. You especially think you’re better than anybody.”
“Fuck you, Steve. We use autotune and a voice modulator. You know your singing sucks. You're only in the band because you’re our friend, and you’re almost seven feet tall–without the four-inch boot heels.”
“No, Jon, or Bloodfist, or whatever the fuck your new stupid name is this week. You’re wrong. We’re not friends, not anymore.”
“First off, Bloodfist is not a stupid name. It’s from the greatest zombie novel ever written. Secondly, I am wrong. You can go fuck off all the way back to your parent’s house. You’re easily replaceable. This fucking guy can do your job.” Jon grabbed the busser who was passing with a bag of garbage. He looked startled, then scared before Jon let go of him.
Al stood off to the side, hands in his pockets, not wanting to join in the yelling contest. He tried to reassure the bus boy that everything was fine, but the pat on his back only made him jump.
Dave was still on stage, breaking down the drums, as always. He was the last one to get into the van before they left.
“Just go. We don’t need you.” Jon turned from Steven and went into the bar.
Steven looked at Al, shook his head, and walked off. There was no reason to hold on to what they had started. It was over. Whatever happened to them next was fate, and their future no longer had anything to do with him.
***
Jon stepped into the dark bar. Some stragglers were hanging around, though the place closed in less than an hour. He sat at the bar and asked the bartender for a beer. Al came in and sat next to him.
They watched Dave take apart his kit on the makeshift stage, not speaking to each other while drinking the last of their free beers. As people started leaving, a few nodded their heads, but most ignored them or looked annoyed.
Jon didn’t like playing places like this, in the middle of nowhere. You never knew how the crowd would be, and usually, the word ‘crowd’ was an absurd overstatement. Most of the people were regulars with no appreciation for their music. A show would end early because the venue began to feel hostile. Jon blamed it on whoever did the hiring–usually the owner. Half the time, they didn’t ask for a demo or link to their songs.
The biker bars were a little better, but their eyeliner and primped hair sometimes caused problems.
“Now what?” Al finished his beer and turned to look at Jon.
Jon shrugged.
“Now we keep going, I guess. I can cover vocals until we find someone else. I wasn’t wrong; we modified the fuck out of Steve’s voice. I need to tweak it for mine, and there will be almost no difference.”
“Gonna be a bit hard singing over the progression changes.”
Jon finished the dregs of his beer and grimaced.
“I know that shit in my sleep. Don’t worry about it, man. It’s only temporary, anyway. We’ll put something out on Craigslist or some shit. Fuck, Sabbath found Ozzy through an ad in the paper, and look how that worked out.”
“Yeah, they imploded, and he went on to be way more successful than any of the other guys.”
“But it would still be cool to be like Sabbath for five albums, wouldn’t it?” Jon raised an eyebrow at Al.
“Having a tour bus would be fucking awesome.”
The bartender put two more beers in front of them.
“One more on the house. That was a rough gig. Louie’s a moron and thinks every band he hires plays fucking southern rock.” She winked at them and walked away.
Jon watched her leave, appreciating her style: leather pants, wrist cuffs, tattoo sleeves. He might have tried his luck flirting with her if they didn’t have to get to the next venue tomorrow night. The make-up covered most of his skin issues, acting like a mask, and gave him confidence that didn’t exist when he cleaned it off.
“I like it,” Al said.
“Yeah, me too.”
Al slapped Jon on the arm. “No, not the girl. Your name. Bloodfist. I think it’s a good name. Fuck Steve. He doesn’t know shit. I mean, come on. Plague? That’s such a fucking generic name.”
Jon laughed. “Yeah, man, thanks. You’re not too bad yourself, Meatgrinder.”
They both chuckled as they downed their drinks. Jon knew the name thing was stupid, but it was a tradition in their scene. They couldn’t go on stage, introduce themselves as Jon, Steve, Al, and Dave, and then launch into their live version of Rotting Corpse Fucker.
It was bad enough that Dave insisted on being called Thunder Roll, no matter how many times they begged him to change it.
A short guy wearing a flannel shirt over a Pabst graphic t-shirt staggered up to them. Jon smelled the booze and weed coming off him long before he got up close.
“Uh oh.” Jon slapped Al’s arm and pointed at the man, who was using all of his concentration on walking.
“Five bucks he tells us we suck or to get the hell out of his bar. Or both.” Al slapped a five-dollar bill on the counter.
Jon flattened out his bill and set it next to the other one.
“He either offers to buy us a drink or asks if we can buy him one.”
They waited.
The guy took forever. For a moment, Jon thought that maybe it was a prank, this person pretending to head towards them but never quite making it.
Then the drunk was right in his face, choking him with his breath.
“Hey, you guys were pretty cool up there. I kind of dug it.”
“Thanks. Glad you enjoyed yourself.”
“What do you call that stuff you were playing anyway? Some kind of heavy metal bang bang shit?”
“Heavy Metal, you got it,” Al said.
“Cool, cool. I like all types of shit. Skynyrd. Beyonce. Talking Radioheads. I dig it all, man. Beyonce.”
“Good to hear. I have a copy of our EP if you want to–”
“GWAR!” The guy shouted so loud Jon felt a pop in his ear, and his vision shook.
They all waited in silence for someone to say something. Captain Flannel rocked on his feet like he was navigating ocean swells. The three of them exchanged looks, playing ping-pong with eyeballs.
“Charlie, time to go. You can get your keys tomorrow morning or whenever you get your butt up.” The bartender tossed a handful of ice at Charlie and pointed toward the door.
Charlie nodded at everyone and stumbled away. Al grabbed his bill off the counter before Jon could stop him.
“He didn’t tell us we sucked. I’m pretty sure he said the exact opposite. That’s mine.”
“He also didn’t ask for, or buy us, a beer. Neither of us won. I call a draw, and I’m keeping my fiver.” Al stuffed it back into his pocket.
Jon pushed his bill towards the bartender.
“Thanks for the extra beer …?”
“Rhea. Thanks. Sorry about Charlie. He can be a bit overwhelming in every manner possible.” She pocketed the tip and cleared up their bottles. “Where are you guys heading after tonight?”
“You’ll have to ask Dave over there. He’s kind of our manager also. And driver.”
“And the drummer who’s stuck putting away his gear while everyone else in the band sucks down a few drinks. He won the lottery, huh? I thought his name was Thunder Roll.” Rhea smirked and rolled her eyes.
“It’s a good name,” Dave said as he passed, carrying one of his bass drums. “Why can’t anybody understand that?”
Dave pushed the front door open with his back and barely made it outside without clipping the drum against the doorframe. Rhea looked at the disassembled drum kit and back at the front door.
“Remind me never to become a drummer. Way too much flipping work.”
“What would your stage name be?” Jon leaned in and gave her his best smile.
“Pussyblood.” Rhea winked at him and went down to the end of the bar to finish cleaning up.
“Damn. She didn’t even hesitate on that question. Maybe she should be our new singer,” Al said.
“Wouldn’t be a bad idea.” Jon followed her with his eyes as she worked, feeling creepy but unable to stop.
Jon was about to make another comment when the front door slammed open. The three of them and the one remaining patron at the end of the bar jumped and turned to look. Dave stood in the doorway, hands on either side of the frame, eyes wide and breathing fast. His face, ordinarily pale to begin with, was even whiter.
“It’s all gone,” he said in between breaths.
Jon stood up and started walking towards him.
“What’s wrong, Dave?”
“Everything’s gone. It’s all gone. We’re fucked.”
“What’s gone?” Jon’s heart sped up in his chest, already anticipating the response.
“All our stuff. Somebody took off with all of our fucking stuff. I went around the corner to start putting my shit away, and nothing was there.”
Al stood up so fast that his stool fell behind him.
“Someone stole my bass? Are you shitting me?”
Jon grabbed the van keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Dave. It hit him in the chest, and fell to the floor.
“What are you doing? Let’s go. Whoever it was couldn’t have gotten far. Let’s get in the van, chase them down, and stop short of killing them when we find them.”
Dave shook his head.
“Can’t.”
“What do you mean, ‘can’t’?”
“Van’s gone.”
“They stole the van, too? When the fuck were you going to say that?” Jon and Al stood in disbelief.
“What part of everything’s gone did you guys not understand?”
Jon pushed his way past Dave and ran to the side parking lot. Dave’s bass drum sat where the van used to be. Other than that, there was no sign of anything. Jon put his hand to his mouth and paced back and forth, not knowing what to do. Al and Dave joined him outside.
Everything they owned was in that van, including their identifications and a cheap metal lockbox with their pooled cash. Their equipment, clothes, cigarettes, everything was gone.
“What are we going to do?” Al asked.
“We have to call the cops. What else is there to do?” Dave sat on his bass drum and held his head in his hands.
Jon shook his head.
“Not the best idea. Did you both forget about our stash in the back of my amp?”
“Oh fuck, they stole our drugs, too? I need those to get through the stress of this fucking situation.” Al pulled his fist back to punch the brick wall but put it back down.
“You know who this was, right? Fucking Steven. Took off with our shit. He’s probably laughing it up on the way back to his stupid parent’s house.”
“No, he wouldn’t do that to us. As much of an asshole as he is, he wouldn’t do that. Besides, we still have the keys. How would he be able to take off?” Dave wiggled the keys in front of Jon’s face.
“Extra key under the rug in the back, dumbass.”
Dave’s smirk disappeared, and his shoulders sagged.
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. I’m going to kill that fucker when I get him. I’ll tie him to a tree and gut him.”
A group of clouds passed over them, blocking out the moon and casting a strange, muted atmosphere over the street. They stood in silence, looking at their surroundings. A traffic light turned red, barely visible in the distance. There were no other buildings in sight, just the desolate parking lot and thick trees on both sides of the road. A solitary sulfur lamp lit the gravel lot, and the sign from the bar hummed and flickered strobe on their faces.
Jon tried calling Steven on his cell, but it went straight to voicemail, not even a single ring. Fucker probably shut it off. He checked his ride-share app but, as he thought, no cars were available near them. He was lucky to be getting two bars worth of signal. It took a while for his map to load, and he searched for hotels. Nothing close. He searched for motels, but there were none.
“Where the fuck are we?”
The last guy in the bar came out and wobbled to his car. He opened the door and turned to look at them.
“You guys need a ride?”
“I guess we’ll need to find a place to stay tonight. Any motels around here?” Jon asked.
The man looked up to the sky and pursed his lips.
“Nope. Sucks for you.” He got in his car and pulled out, laughter coming through the open window.
“Asshole,” Al said, picking up a rock and throwing it at the car. It hit the back window but bounced off. Jon expected the vehicle to brake and the reverse lights to come on, but the guy kept driving until he disappeared into the night.
A bell tinkled, and a door slammed behind them. Rhea stood at the front door, locking it and staring at them. She clipped the keys to her belt loop and took a few steps in their direction. Despite the current situation, Jon couldn’t help but be distracted by the fluidity of her movements.
She stopped at the edge of the parking lot and lit a cigarette. Blue smoke oozed from her mouth like a snake made of vapor. She tilted her head to the side, and Jon heard a sharp crack echo through the night.
“Well, you guys look good and fucked, huh?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Jon said.
“That’s the only way of putting it,” Dave said, his voice muffled by his hands still covering his face.
“Suppose you all need a place to stay?”
“Just for the night. I'm sure our asshole singer drove our van to the airport and left it there. Could you bring us to a motel? I don’t care if it’s a bed bug-infested hole; any place will be fine.” Jon looked in his cigarette pack and grimaced at the three smokes left. He had an entire carton in the van.
“No motels around here. You’re talking at least a forty-five-minute drive, and I wouldn’t bring my grandmother there at this time of night, let alone you three.”
Al kicked at the gravel and cursed.
“It’s cool. We’ll figure something out. It doesn’t look like rain, right?”
Rhea sighed and played with the keyring, the sound louder than expected in the dead silence, bouncing off the trees, building, and surrounding them.
“You can stay at my place tonight. It isn’t much, and you’ll be on the floor, but it’s better than sleeping out here and getting attacked.”
“Attacked? I’m not worried about animals. They tend to stay away from people anyway.” Jon said.
“Other things can attack you besides animals. Anyway, come on. Let’s go.”
The three looked at each other, confused at her statement but shrugged it off. Dave picked up his bass drum.
“Hey, you locked my drums in the bar.”
“Were you planning on strapping them to your back?” Rhea asked.
“No. I mean, what should I do with this?” Dave shook the bass drum.
“Bring it. Just don’t hit it. My ears are still ringing from the show.”
“Is there enough room for all of us in your car?” Jon looked around. “Speaking of your car, where is it?”
“Don’t need one.”
“So we’re walking?”
Rhea gestured up with her head. Jon looked over and saw wooden stairs going up the side of the bar to a white door on the second floor. The two windows facing him were curtained but backlit with a warm glow.
“Oh. Well, that’s easy. Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
“I don’t step over people who are lying on the ground. Not going to leave you all out here. But let’s go; I’m tired of standing.”
Rhea flicked her cigarette into the darkness, and they followed her as she headed upstairs to her apartment. A pair of headlights came on in the distance, and a car started, but otherwise, the world was silent.
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