Skeletons (38 page)

"Shit, that was beautiful," he says, and then he slips out his walkie-talkie and informs whomever to be ready.

"When I give you a thumbs-up," he says to me, "get ready to pray."

He pushes me out onto stage, out of his way, as John tramps by.

"Uh, Mr. Lennon?" Antler says.

And then I'm out there with the Vomits.

"You wanted it,
shitbrain
." Brutus Johnson grins at me from behind his Stratocaster as he tunes it up. Out there, a hundred thou wait.

"Do one of the new ones, shock the
fuggers
," Jimmy
Klemp
says, adjusting his brass-drum pedal. He gives his snare a hit with a stick. "Do it!"

We do it.

At first the crowd is quiet, they've just come off the Beatles, and nobody's going to top that. Plus, they don't know who the fu I am. I may look a little like Randy Pants did in human life, but I'm clearly not Randy, and maybe that's good, maybe that's bad. Truth is, they don't know what the fu to think, so we tell them:

Hey you!
Sittin
' there,

Bone down to your underwear

Hey you
Grinnin
' back,

When you move you creak and crack

Hey you!
Lookin
' white

DON'T YOU WANNA ROCK ALL NIGHT!

Brutus comes in with the greatest, longest guitar riff of his career. The song is done in brutal fast time and Brutus, if anything, picks it up. He's all over the stage, throwing himself down to his knees, letting them know out there that he is the best, that Clapton can finally move aside.

And suddenly the crowd agrees. I get the feeling there were a lot of Vomits fans out there to begin with, at least a lot of Brutus Johnson fans, but suddenly the whole world knows it, and Johnson is leaving no doubt. This is his moment, the moment we've all been waiting for
for
three years. Randy Pants was not the Vomits—Brutus Johnson was—and now everybody knows it!

By the end of the riff a hundred thou have forgotten the Beatles, an amazing feat, Jimmy
Klemp
backing the end of Brutus's break with vicious boom slams, Barney Barnes knocking deep whumps off his bass like he shot from his Mom's womb playing it—and even Antler and John Lennon have forgotten the Beatles, watching in rapt fascination.

At first I think it's Lennon who's giving me the thumbs-up, but I realize in horror that it's Antler, his arm around Lennon's shoulder.

"
Nooooo
!” I shout into the mike.

High above, I hear the approaching whine of jets. Then Brutus's break ends, and it's my turn to sing again:

Hey you!

Sittin
' in this modern world,

Better grab a boner girl!

Hey you!

Take her to the nearest bed

'Cause you're not completely dead! Yah!

That last Yah! is not part of the song, but part of my panic as the sky above opens up like the mouth of hell. Bright lights, jet fighters, and helicopters up the wazoo. Pray indeed. Brutus could care less, he's gone into his final guitar frenzy and the rest of the Vomits are blithely following. I look side stage for Antler, but he's gone, along with Lennon, and now there are huge speakers in the sky, blaring down at us from blimps, drowning out the huge wonderful sound of our own premium sound system:

"Stay where you are! Don't move! Anyone who moves will be immediately shot!"

He's not kidding: up at the rim of the bowl, like Indians in a Custer movie, tanks, howitzers, and men with big guns have appeared. Everything's pointing down. Fish in a barrel.

A squadron of Blue Angels makes a low overpass, making even Brutus stop in mid-chord funk—and the whole bunch of them fire rockets in perfect time. The rockets trace a line toward the horizon, trails weaving around one another like ballet dancers, and then,
thoomp
, they explode midair, making quite a brightness, making everyone go temporarily blind.

"Do not move!" the speakers blare.

"What the—" Barney Barnes shouts, dropping his bass and running from the stage—but Antler is there, with his trusty .44 Walther out and aiming. He pops one into Barney, and Barney's dusted.

"Shit," Brutus says, dropping his
Strat
at his feet and just standing there. Suddenly he bursts into tears. "I was just getting there . . ."

Then lights and booms go off all around us, smoke dropping from above, from the rim of the bowl, from everywhere, and I'm looking for Antler, but again he's gone, and now I look up.

Pray, indeed!

There it is, though: a tether and ring lowered from a Huey, it's almost over my head before I grab it. Immediately it reverses winch and I'm hauled up, over the rising smoke below.

"Hey, you bastard!" Jimmy
Klemp
yells at me, throwing one of his sticks. But he's engulfed in smoke and starts coughing. His stick twirls up out of the smoke, just out of my reach, then falls twirling back into the banks of cloud below my feet.

"You bastard . . ."

Up I go.

And then into the belly of the metal Huey beast. I look down. The entire bowl is filled with raspberry-colored smoke, rolling like some caldron. At the edges little figures,
skel
and human, try to climb out, but they're pushed back down or shot at until they reverse field. The soldiers doing the pushing and shooting are wearing gas masks.

The Huey rises. The little people start to look like ants trying to overflow a hill. But already there are fewer of them, the bowl is eating them up.

"Shit, and the Ramones were on after us," I say.

"Too bad, old boy," Bobbie
Zick's
voice says behind me.

Yeah, he's there, ol' Bobbie, I should have known, sitting in a comfortable seat. Next to him is Antler, and next to him is John Lennon, looking down at the bowl in gaping wonder.

"It's bloody incredible," Lennon says. "And you're sure. . .

"Yeah, yeah, John, no problem," Antler says. He sounds disappointed. "Just gas. It'll turn the humans and just put the others to sleep for a while. They'll wake up with a big hangover."

Lennon laughs. "Wouldn't be the first time for
Ringo
."

Bobbie's grinning at me, and now Antler turns to me with a sour look.

"Like I told you, we wanted to use a tactical nuke, but Lincoln said no," Antler says. "Wouldn't even let us use an air
burster
. What a
wuss
. If only Bush hadn't gone and got himself dusted in that oil-fire thing in Kuwait . . . His indignation won't leave.

"I told Lincoln a neutron bomb would make the damn area safe for picnics in a month. Even that didn't cut it. Well, maybe soon.”

"Got a few more tricks up your sleeve?" Bobbie
Zick
asks, and both he and Antler laugh.

"My kind of
wuss
, that Lincoln," Lennon says. Antler gives me that hungry
skel
-to-human glare. "That damn Lincoln. I can't even turn you."

I smile weakly.

"Oh, yes, old boy," Bobbie
Zick
says, laughing. "You're still the valuable commodity."

"You've been working all along with the feds?" I ask.

Bobbie shrugs. "Only since you gave me your idea for this music festival. It was apparent by then our little rebel movement had no chance of success." He smiled. "Better to join the feds than be beaten by them." He spread his hand out at the gas clouds below. "And all these humans were our little present."

"Merry Christmas!" Antler says, with a sly look at Bobbie.

Bobbie says, in his best Brit accent, "I'm just a good American at heart. Your little music fest provided the perfect vehicle for wrapping up everyone's business." He sighs. "And from now on, he says, deliberately using for the first time his real, Brooklyn accent, "I'm afraid I'm gonna
hafta
concentrate on duh music
bizness
." His Bobbie
Zick
Brit accent comes back. "Woe is me, old boy."

"Good bloody American indeed." Lennon laughs sarcastically.

"Good enough to let you start Lennon Records, eh?" Bobbie says. “Two Beatles albums, plus solo efforts for all you
moptops
. Not bad, eh, old boy?"

Lennon looks out the window. "What can I say? You're no worse than any of them, I suppose. You're all
fookin
' maggots at heart."

Bobbie shrugs. "She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah."

"And me?" I say, letting a sliver of hope creep into my voice. "Is there, uh, any possibility of, say, Roger Records? Or maybe, um, at least that, uh, Vomits record getting made? I mean, uh, we could easily replace Barney, and—"

Bobbie shrugs again. "Sorry, old boy. Out of my hands." He looks to Antler.

"Washington's got other plans for you," Antler says. His tone is as flat and unreadable as his eyes.

I smile a phony smile. "Uh . . . that's great."

"Yeah, we all got away with one this time," Bobbie
Zick
says.

"Some of us," Lennon says.

Bobbie and Antler look at each other and laugh, while Lennon and I continue to look out the window, studying the receding, raspberry-smoke-filled bowl below.

And . . . so I meet Mr. Lincoln of Illinois.

Quite a kick, actually. I mean, this dude is walking history. And after hearing how he refused to dust all those
skels
and humans in Alaska who refused to bow to his will, well, for the moment at least he's my kind of boner.

But that doesn't make him immune to that same creepy hunger to kill that the other
skels
have. Only it bothers Mr. L, I can see. When he shakes my hand, there's a momentary hitch, a repulsion that he consciously overcomes. I can see it in his eye sockets, he's fighting himself to like me instead of wring my neck. But this guy always wins, and the handshake is warm—for a
skel
.

"Mr. Garber," he says.

"Uh, Mr. President."

"I'm going to ask you to help me," he says. "Uh . . . sure."

"There is work that needs to be done. We are very close, after the incident in Anchorage, to the goals we have set."

I know I'm a jerk, he knows I'm a jerk, but, damn, the man has class. "Sure."

Mr. L goes on to explain those goals, maybe hoping that I won't fall asleep. I don't, but I don't know what he's talking about, either. A bunch of jazz about a new world, peace for everybody, a paradise with law and happiness for all. I can see it now.
Skels
without hell. I feel like telling him about Antler and Bobbie
Zick
, and how that's probably only the tip of the tomato. Doesn't he know about guys like me for cry sakes?

"And that's why, Mr. Garber, we'd like to accomplish this endeavor with as little bloodshed as possible. For the good of all."

"Uh . . . right," I say.

He suddenly turns away from me, puts his hands behind his back, and walks to the window of his office. Not a good view out there, it's just about winter now, cold and windy and the trees have dropped their leaves like horses taking a dump. Looks like ol' man winter's getting ready to roar in.

"I'm not a fool, Mr. Garber," Mr. L says.

His voice sounds so sad I suddenly want to
friggin
' cry, no kidding. I think of my own old man for a minute, the hand, the slap, the drunken bastard. God, I wish this guy had been my father. I would have done anything for him, no slap needed. "I've given up much for this cause. I'm a pragmatic man, not a dreamer. Every one of my waking moments has been filled with trying to make sense of what's going on around me.

"I want you to know I'm trying to do the best thing for all. All, Mr. Garber. That includes you and me. I used to be human, a long time ago. I . . . vaguely remember the feelings I had, and I understand the differences between us. I know I'm different now. This doesn't please me, but I believe there is a purpose to all this, Mr. Garber." He suddenly turns to look at me, and now I am crying, what the hell is wrong with me? He's so sad, he's so hard at the same time, it's scary. He's like . . . God, almost. Or Solomon. Yeah, I had all that Bible stuff, when I was a kid. Jeez, this is depressing.

"I think in some way you know what I mean," Mr. L continues. He turns away from me again, preferring the window. I don't blame him. This guy's got me ready to pee in my own pants, wanting to fall on the ground and confess my sins. Hell, I'm sure he already knows what they are.

"There's a place in this for you, too," he says. "In exchange for your help, you will be treated with . . . respect. I'm told you enjoy the music business. You will be granted a position of some merit in that business, when all this is over—and if you behave yourself. And I give you my word, you will not be turned."

"Working for Bobbie
Zick
?" I say, suddenly redeemed.

Lincoln turns and scowls at me. "Mr.
Zick
is in jail. So is the man who was trusted with the mission you were involved in in Anchorage."