John Dies at the End

weakness.”

John said, “We know. Chairs.”

“Uh, not exactly. They’re natural discordians. It’s a product of where they’re from, you see. When you live in a world of black noise, melody is like a blade to the ears. Angels and their harps and all that.”

I asked, “What does that have to do with—”

A hole exploded from the center of the door. A little pink fist and a segmented leg curled through, reaching around between John and Big Jim. John grabbed it by the wrist and Jennifer severed the arm with the switchblade. There was a feline shriek from the other side. John held the detached arm in his hand for a moment, then shoved it back through the ragged hole.

Marconi said, “I see you have your instruments. Can any of you sing? The old spirituals work best.”

John said, “I can sing.”

I said, “No, you can’t, John.”

“Well, I play the guitar.”

“So can I,” said Big Jim. “We have two guitars.”

I said, “This could not be any stupider.”

John said, “Dave, you remember the words to ‘Camel Holocaust’?”

“Ah, once again, you prove me wrong, John.”

Marconi looked down at the two carts stacked with amps and cables and said, “How long is it? I’ll need several minutes.”

John stepped around and lifted the guitar off my back, said, “ ‘Camel Holocaust’ is as long as you want it to be, my friend. I’m lead, Jim is rhythm, Jen sings backup. Jen, just repeat everything Dave sings, only like one second behind. The sound system will be on the stage. We duck out there and plug in and wail. Okay? Guys, this is just retarded enough to work.”

We set up, then faced the banging door. John said, “You know, I’m surprised the door stopped them, since they can teleport around like that. You’d think they could just blink right through it.”

There was sudden silence from beyond the door, a muttering like the creatures had just realized something. From behind me, Jim screamed.

One of the beasts was on his back. A second appeared on his chest, and in a blurred motion it snatched at his throat.

Jim collapsed on his guitar, the white instrument turning instantly crimson.

Jennifer lunged with the switchblade and stabbed one beast to death. She was good with that thing.

I said, “Jim? Are you—”

He rolled over, his throat laying open in shreds and flaps, as if it had been hit with a shotgun blast. His eyes were wide, his mouth working. Then, he was gone.

I opened my mouth to say something when suddenly my vision was obstructed by blackness. There were little pinches on my chest and belly, like something grabbing hold. My vision focused and I saw a dozen mismatched eyes staring back at me.

I fell backward, hit the ground, the wig monster riding on my chest. Its beak opened and I saw a pink, human tongue lolling around inside.

An electric shriek emerged from the ballroom. A guitar.

The creature closed its beak and turned toward the open door where John played, a look of intense annoyance on its face. It trotted away, two tiny hands over its ears.

Marconi said, “Good! Go!”

I stood and pushed through the open door. John played his ax with his legs spread apart, holding the guitar low to the ground. I sprinted around him, grabbed the mic off of the stage. For a moment, I was speechless.

The base of the fountain was now hidden behind a seven-foot-high circle of stacked body parts, the ice angel rising from the center. The remaining wig monsters gathered around the perimeter, facing inward, as if waiting.

There is no possible way this is actually happening.

Well, might as well go with it. I clenched my throat, filled my lungs until my diaphragm pushed out against the gold-plated belt I was wearing, and screeched:“I knew a manNo, I made that part upHair! Hair! Haaairrr!Camel Holocaust! Camel Holocaust!”

The creatures spun our way, donned some very disappointed frowns, backed away.

“Brilliant!” shouted Marconi. “You’re really annoying them! Let’s move!”

We pushed forward toward the fountain, the sound of the music thundering through the room, scattering the beasts before us like a leaf blower. One of the wig monsters spat at me.“My melon soulCrushed by your Gallagher of apathySledgehammer! Hammerrrrr!Camel Holocaust! Camel Holocaust!”

We reached the length of our cables, still some distance from the fountain. Marconi went forward with Jennifer in tow. They got within blessing distance of the angel and Marconi said, “Father, you give us grace through sacramental signs, which tell us of the wonders of your unseen power. In baptism we use your gift of water, which you have made a rich symbol of the grace you give us in this sacrament. At the very dawn of creation . . .”“There’s a wolf behind youNo, wait, it’s just a dogOh, shit! Badger! Baaaadgeeeerrr!Camel Holocaust! Camel Holocaust!”

We hit the first solo, John ripped into it. Several of the wig monsters were now chewing on John’s guitar wire.

The sound died into faint, pathetic guitar pluckings.

The monsters lurched toward us en masse. John, thinking quickly, ran over and snatched the microphone from my hands. He began making guitar sounds with his mouth.

“WAAAAHHHH wah-wah-wah-wah-wah, weet woo weet weet woo—”

I didn’t think that would work. I spun on Dr. Marconi, saw him stepping up over the human-parts wall toward the fountain itself. I followed him, climbed up, stepped on a face, a bundle of six hands, an ass.

The pool was black now. Not black like oil, but black like a cave, so that you couldn’t see any reflection or ripples in the surface, not even when Dr. Marconi waded out into it. A black rain fell off the angel’s wings above us.

John mounted the pile behind us, screamed, “WAH, DO-DO-DO-DOOOO-DO, DEE DOO DOO —”

Marconi, knee-deep in black oil, reached out and touched the icy surface of the statue. He said, “We ask you, Father, with your Son . . .”

John had reached the end of his solo, was now making up a third verse to the song.“My hat smells likelubricant, I don’t wanna touch itWait, this isn’t mine! And it’s not a hat!Camel Holo—”

John’s mic cable was cut. The sound died.

“—on the waters of this font. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Marconi stepped back.

Nothing.

John turned to the waves of approaching monsters and said, “NOW LICK THE STATUE!”

The blackness in the pool suddenly rose, covering the feet of the statue, spilling over the edges of the fountain. I leaned over and pulled at Marconi’s jacket, pulling him back, not sure what was happening but certain we didn’t want to be standing in the middle of it when it did. He waded over to the edge of the pool. He raised one leg out of the blackness and we saw, with horror, that he had no leg. Everything that had been submerged was gone, his pants ending in a neat line with only empty space beneath—

—and then it was back, whole again. Like a trick of the light. The doctor suddenly sprang out of the pool with renewed motivation. I glanced nervously at my white patent leather shoes disappearing under the rising black tide.

John and Jennifer helped us clamber up the wall of human limbs, then we ran our asses off across the ballroom floor. There was a whistling sound, like wind howling through tree branches. I saw a couple of chairs scooting along the floor toward the fountain, suddenly felt a pull like I was running from an electromagnet with a gut full of iron pellets.

One of the wig monsters skittered toward us, but was suddenly lifted out of the air and sucked back to what I was fairly certain was a portal to Hell. The howling sound was loud now, deafening, the sound of a jetliner. Folding