Black Treacle Magazine (March/April 2013, Issue 2) (7 page)

Rona laughed.
“Jack Daniels, Blue Curacao, peach schnapps. And orange juice. It’s
sweet.”

Should she
offer her a taste? Would that be weird?

“Sounds
dangerous,” Scarab said. “I like you already. Gargleblaster’s a
stupid name though.”

“Didn’t you
ever read Douglas Adams? That’s where the name of the bar comes
from too. Everyone calls it Zaphod’s but it’s actually Zaphod
Beeblebrox. It’s the name of a character.”

“Huh.” Scarab
was already turning away and Rona bit her lip until she tasted
blood.

But Scarab
turned and beckoned her with her finger.

She followed
Scarab through the narrow bar, guided by the purple light tubes on
the walls. Her gargleblaster was the thick green of unripe fruit
and whenever Rona swayed toward the black light, a fluorescent
peachy stain drifted down from the surface, eddying around the ice
cubes. People jostled her and she spilled a little on her t-shirt
but she didn’t care; it was distant.

Scarab opened
the little door by the stage. Holy fuck: Backstage. The band
room.

Suze would
love that.

“Is it okay if
I get my roommate?” Rona asked, leaning close to Scarab to be heard
over the music. Cigarettes and beer smelled good on a woman like
Scarab.

Scarab
grimaced. “It’s a really small room.”

Rona turned
and looked blankly at the faces in the crowd. She didn’t see Suze.
Maybe she’d gone home after all.

“Are you
coming?”

Rona walked
through. It was dark on the other side.

* * *

Rona giggled
as they felt their way down a flight of stairs.

“The Scorpions
don’t like light,” Scarab said. “Especially after a show. They need
to recover because the strobe lights make them crazy. Damn near
kill them. I keep telling the Scorpions that people would like the
shows fine with no lights, but they ignore me. Masochists.”

“They’re down
here?”

“Of course.
This is the band room. They’re the band. Are you scared?”

“No. I’m
excited.”

“Good. They’ll
fucking change your life.”

* * *

Up close, the
surface of the Scorpion was both shiny and furry, every hair
standing out on the razor claws. It blocked out what little light
came from the doorframe behind it.

The movement
was so fast, it might have been film editing. In an instant, the
pincers spread wide, and eight legs flung out, bracing the enormous
body, the back angling up, the tail curling, erect. Rona almost had
time to wince when the pincers grasped her shoulders.

She didn’t see
the stinger when it came.

* * *

When she
opened her mouth to scream, Scarab thrust a rag into her mouth and
bound it. The Scorpion scrabbled with its pincers on her arms for a
moment, then let its pincers drop. Scarab took Rona’s elbow and
walked her into the dim band room. The two other Scorpions were
there, in the shadows. They might have been sleeping.

Scarab walked
her gently into the room and sat her on a sagging couch of
indeterminate colour. A part of Rona’s mind felt guilty for not
resisting or escaping, but weakness was creeping up her legs and
she didn’t want to be anywhere else, anyway. This was happening.
She’d been chosen. People said all kinds of things about what
Scorpion venom did to a person and now she, Rona, was going to find
out.

They had seen
her for what she was after all. They had known she was special.

Maybe that
meant they were going to eat her, or wrap her up like Frodo in
Shelob’s lair. Somehow Rona didn’t care. Whatever it was, it was
better than going home to order poutine with Suze and play drunk
Donkey Kong.

Scarab sat
across from her, on another couch, across a low coffee table. She
lit a cigarette.

“The venom
takes a few minutes to get into your nervous system,” Scarab said.
“Once it does, I’ll take off the gag. You’ll be fine, by the way.
You’re not going to die or anything.”

Pain spread
from Rona’s neck, just under her right ear. She could hear her own
heart drumming way too fast.

“They don’t
ask first because they don’t want anyone to say no, and then go
tell people about it,” Scarab said. “I tried to tell them you were
a sure thing, no need for the ambush and gag with you, but like I
say, they don’t listen to me.”

Rona’s ears
were ringing, giving every sound an underwater quality. She tried
to wonder why Scarab sounded sad, but she couldn’t quite work up
the concentration. There was no point in wondering about anything.
Things just were what they were.

Her right arm
spasmed.

“There you
go,” Scarab said. “I’ll take out the gag now if you promise not to
scream.”

Rona made some
kind of movement with her head that was close enough to a nod.
Scarab leaned forward, took the gag out, her face close to
Rona’s.

She whispered,
into the ear on the sting side, “It’s OK. Just go with it. Don’t
worry.”

Her hands
slipped on Rona’s sweaty skin.

“How are you
doing?” Scarab asked.

Rona opened
and shut her mouth a few times, feeling her teeth with her tongue.
Spit frothed her lips and dribbled down her chin.

The nearest
Scorpion rearranged its chitinous limbs a little, folded one pincer
over the other in a clicking movement not quite human, not quite
animal. It cocked its head at her in a fluid motion; everything it
did was like dancing. She thought this was the one who had stung
her.

Rona could
almost understand the words in her head. Not quite but almost.
Whispers in a far room.

Her neck hurt.
And her shoulder. And both her arms. She glanced down. Each of her
upper arms had a red slice through it from the pincers, blood
welling and dripping.

Whispers.
Distant whispers in her mind. Possibilities.

Below the
deepest slices on her arms there were several shallower cuts that
looked as if they’d been made by the pincers too. The pattern meant
something; the more she looked at it, the more it meant.

Instructions.
Cut into her skin in a language she was now able to read.

She looked at
Scarab. Scarab picked up Rona’s drink, stood up, holding the glass
high above the concrete floor. She dropped it and it shattered, the
greenish liquid oozing into a puddle.

Rona stood
too, and bent to pick up one of the pieces.

“I knew it was
coming soon,” Scarab said. “They get bored easily. You have a nice
voice. They like your voice.”

“It’s all for
the show,” Rona said hoarsely, echoing the words in her mind.

Scarab nodded.
“And everyone’s dispensable.”

They stood,
and Rona hugged Scarab close, a piece of broken glass in her right
hand, against Scarab’s neck.

The three
Scorpions, watching, made a noise with their pincers like
clapping.

* * *

The bar was
almost empty, save a few stragglers who would drink until someone
told them to stop.

And Suze.

She came back
for me, Rona thought. Or she never left. Maybe she was here the
whole time, up here with the clueless people.

She heard the
Scorpions in her mind, now, clearly. Hurry up, they said. We need
you.

Suze walked up
to the stage where Rona was packing up the last of the Scorpions’
gear. She understood now why the band used no roadies; no awkward
questions about turnover.

They need
me.

“Holy shit,”
Suze said. “What are you doing? What are you wearing?”

Rona was
wearing a glittery baby doll shirt she’d found in Scarab’s bag. It
showed some of her midriff. The old Rona would have been pulling it
down all the time. The new Rona couldn’t care less. She’d chosen it
mainly because its three-quarter length sleeves covered the scrapes
on her arms. Her hair was a mess, so she’d pulled it into a wild
ponytail on the top of her head.

“What is
that?” Suze was pointing. “What’s on you?”

Rona looked
down. In the black light, a spray of drops glowed lurid all the way
down one leg of her jeans and on the back of one hand. She thought
she’d got all of the blood off. Thanks, Scarab, she thought. It
looks pretty.

The venom had
subsided but everything still had a faraway, underwater feeling.
Everything but the Scorpions’ words. They were trying out some
chords and she heard that too, in her mind, where the world was
clear.

She was
beginning to understand why it had to be death, for the others.
This connection felt permanent. Once the Scorpions had crawled into
a mind they couldn’t crawl out.

“I’m with the
band now,” Rona said, and bent down to wrap a cable.

END

Kate Heartfield
is a newspaper
journalist in Ottawa, Canada. Her short fiction has appeared in the
anthology
Blood and Water
and in journals such as
The New Quarterly
. Her story
"
For Sale by Owner
" will appear soon in
Daily Science
Fiction
. She is working on a novel. She
can be found on Twitter as
@kateheartfield
and blogs
at
heartfieldfiction.wordpress.com
.

BLACK TREACLE
MAGAZINE

Black Treacle
is a free magazine of Horror, Dark Fantasy, and Speculative
fiction. Published on a monthly schedule, each issue includes 4-5
pieces of original short fiction.

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and give preference to Canadian writers.

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Issues

February 2013 –
Issue #1

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