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“You heard nothing!” the army guy shouts. “Now beat it, quick, before I —”
“Wait a minute,” the punk says, squinting at me with pale blue eyes. He nods for me to continue.
“Well...like I said...I heard you talking and... well... are you two guys...by any chance...I mean... are you Disciples?”
The pair stare at me dumbly. Then the army guy looks around, picks up a piece of metal, lets the doors swing almost fully closed, sticks the metal between them to keep them ajar. Strides over, the punk a couple of paces behind him.
“Who are you?” he growls.
“My name’s Kernel Fleck. I was with Beranabus. I want to get back to him. I ... Do you know who I mean? Are you ...?”
The pair exchange silent glances. I start to think I got it wrong, that I misheard, or maybe The Demons are just another band. But then the army guy shrugs and the punk sticks out a hand. “Yes,” the punk says as we shake hands. “We’re Disciples. This is Shark. And my name’s Dervish. Dervish Grady. But don’t ask me to whirl,” he says warningly. And smiles.
THE MONSTER MASH
DERVISH starts to question me, to find out why I’m here, how I know Beranabus. But Shark cuts in. “The attack could come at any minute. We need to prepare for it.”
He pulls the doors open and gestures me inside. It’s dark and incredibly noisy. The room’s quite large but packed with punks. Mostly guys, Dervish’s age or a bit older. A band is playing on a small stage to our right. Thrashing away at their guitars and drums as though the world is about to end and they’re determined to finish their song before it does. The singer screams into his microphone, mostly swear words, sticking his middle fingers up at the crowd and bellowing at them.
The punks love it. They’re dancing like crazy, leaping up and down or holding on to each other and spinning wildly. Some are fighting, but it’s good natured. They’re drawing blood, but they don’t care — that just adds color.
There are more studs, piercings and tattoos than I’ve ever seen. That reminds me of Shark’s knuckles and I look down at his hands. His name is tattooed on both sets, a letter per finger, with a black-and-white shark’s head filling the flesh between both thumbs and index fingers, jaws wide, teeth glistening.
“It sounds like a dentist’s drill,” Shark yells at D
ervish, scowling at the noise. “You really like this crap?”
“It’s the new wave,” Dervish grins. “The music of change. An-ar-cheeeeeee!” He punches the air with his right fist.
“Grow up,” Shark snorts, then looks down at me. “You like this?”
“I’ve never heard anything like it,” I tell him. “It’s giving me a headache.”
Shark laughs. “The kid’s got more sense than you, Grady.”
The song ends and the band take a short break so that one of the guitarists can replace the guitar that he’s just broken. Dervish uses the lull to fill me in.
“Somebody’s summoning a demon. We’ve been trying to stop him for the last couple of weeks. We don’t know who the summoner is, but we know the crossing’s going to happen here, tonight. If we can’t stop it, we plan to kill the demon or push it back.”
“We won’t be able to kill it,” Shark says. “We’re not strong enough to destroy a demon. In the Demonata’s universe, maybe — but driving it back is the best we can hope for here.”
“Have you done this a lot?” I ask.
“I have. This is Grady’s first taste of action.” He punches Dervish’s upper left arm. “I’m not sure he’s up to it.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Dervish growls. “I’ll do what I have to.”
“I know you will,” Shark chuckles. “Now, let’s try and find the demon-loving scumbag, though I guess we won’t know who it is until —”
“He’s over there,” I interrupt, pointing at a middle-aged man near the stage. He’s dressed like a punk, but doesn’t really fit the part. Lean and muscular, with a thick mohawk haircut. His lips are moving steadily. He’s the focus for the patches of light. They’re pulsing around him in an almost fully formed window.
“How do you know?” Shark asks suspiciously.
“Never mind. That’s him. He’s almost done. Another few minutes and the window will open.”
Shark curses, then starts towards the man with the mohawk. Dervish pushes after Shark, and I head after Dervish. As we’re nudging through the crowd, the band howls into a new, faster song, and the place goes wild. Suddenly punks are leaping all around me, bashing into one another, falling over, kicking and punching everyone in sight.
I’m knocked to the floor. Someone stamps on my right hand. I yell with pain. Try to get up but I’m knocked down again. Struggling, panting, afraid I’m going to be crushed to death by a sea of punks.
