They hopped out of the jeep, resisting the urge to firetheir weapons at the dead. They had seen how quickly the dead had circled in onthe wounded soldier. Even now, their presence was drawing attention. Ace walkedto the front of the building and stopped in front of a door set into red brickwalls; the propane torches flanking the door no longer guttered flame as theydid the night before.
He placed his hand on the black, iron handle of the doorand yanked. To his surprise, it swung open with ease. The inside of thebuilding was black, the only sound the buzzing of flies. Ace reached into hispocket and pulled out his trusty lighter. It was a brass Zippo, purchased onone of his previous tours through the United States. Before they had fled thejail, they had claimed their personal effects using a key covered in blood. Hewas glad he had stopped to liberate it, though the light it cast in the clubwas minimal. He stepped inside, and pulled his gun free, enjoying thereassuring weight of it in his hand.
The floor of the club was littered with broken glass,puddles of beer, and the occasional pile of blood. No one had bothered to cleanup after the concert the night before. That was good. That meant his gear wasstill here. He felt the men behind him pressing him forward.
"Look for a light," he told the red-beardedman. Without speaking, the man did as he was told, holding his own lighter inthe air, dragging its light along with him. Ace felt like an archeologist,discovering the remains of an ancient civilization. "Like motherfuckingIndiana Jones," he said under his breath.
Ace stood in the middle of the club, his lighter heldabove his head, remembering the chaos of the previous night. It seemed like alifetime ago, him standing on stage with his friends, playing guitar, beltingout lyrics, and scanning the crowd for appropriate backstage material. Thatlife was over.
The lights came on suddenly, and Ace blinked his eyes asthey adjusted. He snapped his lighter closed. In the bright lights, the clubseemed small. On the stage, their instruments still sat, never to be playedagain. The man with the teardrop tattoo moved behind the counter and beganpulling out beers and placing them on the counter. The other men gatheredaround, thirst on their lips.
Ace had no interest in drinking with them. His mindreeled and roiled with emotions, emotions he wasn't capable of dealing with.Hey Fever's drum set sat silent in the background, the words "ElectricFever" scrawled across the bass drum in angular, yellow script. He walkedto the stage and looked at the candy-red bass lying on the scuffed wood of thedance floor. Jungle Fever's blood was still smeared on the frets, the neck ofthe bass lying several feet from the body. Of all the things Ace had seen overthe previous 24 hours, seeing the bass lying broken on the ground was by farthe worst.
He leaned against the stage and closed his eyes. He sawthe entire night in his head, the entire horrible ordeal. When he opened hiseyes, the world was still there, and he rolled onto the stage. He got to hisfeet, and walked past Hey Fever's drum set, tapping lightly on the floor tom.Hey Fever's half-empty beer still sat on one of the Marshall stacks. He movedto the back of the stage, pushing the ancient, stained, red curtains aside.
He walked down a narrow back corridor to the band room.The cinderblock walls were glazed in red paint buried undernesth thousands ofexamples of poor graffiti drawn in sharpie. He put his hand to the wooden doorof the back room and shoved it open. It slid silently on well-oiled hinges, andhe saw inside. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw that everything was justas they had left it, messy and ready to use.
A baggie filled with white powder sat half open on top ofhis suitcase, a battered suitcase that his mother had given him. His clotheswere bundled underneath, and empty bottle of beer littered the tables andcouches. The room was stuffy and hot, the smell of stale alcohol permeating theair. Ace grabbed the baggie out of the suitcase and left the room, abandoninghis only possessions, his only reminders of the world that he had left behindsome 4,000 miles away. It would be good to forget that world.
Ace returned to the bar and found his guys sitting theredrinking themselves silly. He plopped the baggie down on the counter, and thered-bearded man said, "Fuck yeah."
The red-bearded man pulled a credit card from his wallet.Then he used his large, meaty hands to pull the bag open, and with the plasticsquare, he lifted some of the powder out of the bag and dumped it on the bar'scounter. He began chopping at it and forming it into lines. When he was done,he looked around and found a translucent green straw. He was about to snort it,when the red-bearded man looked at Ace and offered him the straw. It was anhonorable thing to do; it was the right thing to do. Ace took the profferedstraw, bent over the counter, plugged his free nostril, and snorted the powderup his nose.
The chemical concoction numbed his nasal passageimmediately, and he felt the familiar rush. He dabbed at his nose, knockingfree any loose granules, and leaned back as his heart began to beat faster. Hewatched as the others lined up, except for the chubby man with the goatee.
"What's wrong? You too good to party?" Aceasked
The pudgy man looked at him and said, "I've neversnorted coke before."
Ace smiled at the man. "There's a first time foreverything."
"Go on, man. It ain't gonna kill you," thered-bearded man said.
The pudgy man looked at him, uncertainty in his eyes."You sure?"
"What's your name?" Ace asked him.
"Earl," he said.
"Earl? That name is no good.
