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About the Author
Jacy Morris is a Native American author who has brought to life zombies, cults, demons, killer boy bands, and spirits. You can learn more about him at the following:
http://jacymorris.com
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THE
DROP
By Jacy Morris
Here is a sneak preview:
PROLOGUE
An excerpt from an article entitled "Whoa-Town Becoming Whoa-World in Record Time" by Anton Russo as Published in Rolling Stone
Part of me wants to hate them. Boy bands aren't supposed to be this good. A man, a grown-ass, thirty-year-old man, shouldn't find himself moved by the vocal-stylings of five boys, some not even old enough to drink yet. But here I am, at Wembley Stadium, packed in like cattle in a slaughterhouse chute, ready to stick my head into the kill box and have a hole punched in my cranium.
There is no opening band for Whoa-Town. What sucker would take that gig? Who would want to have the memory of their performance obliterated by the next act, a band that many claim is bigger than the Beatles and the Stones combined? Lofty words. All of us scoffing, bearded, music snobs sneer, knowing full well in our hearts that there is no way anyone means it when they throw out those comparisons. It's just the thing that clichéd, hack journalists say when they can't think of any way of telling people how big a band is or is going to be.
Here I am, standing amid the heat and the hot breath of 90,000 people, the lucky ones who snagged their tickets in that first two minutes before the entire system crashed. Leading to a day in London collectively known as Cry Day, the day that every teenage girl, and many other men, women, and boys christened their cell phones with tears at news that the Whoa-Town show was already sold out.
You'd expect the air to reek of cheap designer-knockoff perfume, hair product and bubblegum. But it doesn't. It smells of something else. It reeks instead of lust and anticipation. The crowd hums with energy; their faces drip sweat even though the stadium's roof is open to the elements. The cool night air can't compete with their fever. Their bodies vibrate, conducting heat at a level that confirms in my mind that spontaneous combustion might actually be a thing. At any moment, the girl next to me, screaming ear-piercing "woos" every thirty seconds or so, might burst into flames.
Before long, we can't take it anymore. Wait... they can't take it. I'm certainly not into any boy band. I'm just here for the story. They begin to chant. When the mother next to me, clad in baggy jeans that go up past her bellybutton, elbows me as encouragement, I make a show of reluctantly joining in. I clap. I yell, "Whoa-Town!" right along with everyone else.
Only when the building quakes from all the stomping, yelling, and clapping does something happen. Just as I am assured that Wembley Stadium will collapse around us before the band ever takes stage, the lights come on, blinding us. The lights fade, dropping faster than my own aloof persona, plunging us into a darkness punctuated by the unwelcome glow of emergency lighting. Around the stadium, tiny rectangular blooms of blue-light illuminate in response. 90,000 people recording when they aren't supposed to be. It is as if the stadium is filled with thousands of mutant fireflies, swaying from side to side as the chant of "Whoa-Town!" thunders through the stadium once again... and then the beat drops.
With a "whoomp," several sparking shapes arc into the air, erupting into gold and crimson starbursts, and screams echo so loudly that I'm not even sure when the screaming stops and the music begins. They're here. Whoa-Town, the boys that will change music and the world forever and I, Anton Russo, was there.
Tragic. Just tragic. - Sebastian
You think that's tragic, check out those Teen Beat articles I found. - Katherine
Chapter 1: Walking the Streets
I see this story as more than a job, more than just a fact-finding mission to once again help us cope with the tragedy, with a loss that, in a very real sense, is unprecedented. Many people have tried that. So many. No, if that's all this was, then I would be off somewhere else, looking into a murder or trying to uncover the next dastardly person exploiting the American Relief Organization.
I see this story as a time capsule, a way to help the people of the future. If there's one thing that I learned from my 8th-grade social studies teacher, it's that history is a cycle, and that all things, good or bad, will come around again, hence the term revolution, a circuit, a never-ending loop that only the educated can see. Thinking about what the world has just gone through, and is still going through, I can only shudder at the thought that hundreds of years down the line this will all happen again. So my hope is to write this story, bury it in the ground, and when it's needed, the people of the future can come and dig it up.
People will need to know, not so much the people that are still alive, but the people of the future. The people still alive already know about The Drop. They're so tired of thinking
