Among the Living by Timothy W. Long

Author:Timothy W. Long [Long, Timothy W.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: world war z, end of the world, tim long, apocalyptic fiction, night of the living dead, max brooks, brian keene, zombies, living dead, walking dead, apocalyptic book, apocalypse, seattle, the walking dead
Publisher: Permuted Press
Published: 2011-09-03T04:00:00+00:00

Grinder

The show is going well so far. About fifty fans stand around for the first band, a local group called simply Ballard. They play a brutal sludge metal that has the singer-keyboardist jumping into the crowd when they don’t yell loud enough, of which Grinder approves. The smell of pot drifts across the stage.

The next band has double the fans, some of them cheering at the top of their lungs. Anti-Pope-Reviver has a hot female bass player who likes to wear tiny miniskirts on stage. In the light of day, she isn’t nearly as attractive. Face a bit long with a high forehead. Pale skin from being on a bus all day and stage all night. She is slim and trim, and Grinder is pretty sure she is a total cokehead.

Grinder doesn’t do drugs, not anymore. The music is too important to him. Sure, he takes a hit of weed from time to time, but that doesn’t count. If it is natural, from the earth, what harm is it? Hell, half the country smokes it. He does like to drink, though, and he loves to start when the second act is winding down.

He has the bottle of Wild Turkey in hand that he stole from Wil earlier. He sips it while he warms up his vocal cords; this amounts to a lot of humming and then some ungodly howls. One of the roadies has already fetched a pint of ice-cold chocolate milk and dumped a few shots of Baileys in it. What would the fans think if they knew he got his evil growls not from the devil but from chocolate milk, which thickens the mucus in his throat?

The liquor burns a nice line of fire into his belly just as Anti-Pope-Reviver is finishing up. They play the last few beats, and then there is the promise of “See you again soon!” for which the now-full venue cheers.

Half the kids out there are either drunk or wired up on the drug of their choice—most likely both. Some of the girls do ecstasy at the show and get all touchy feely. Grinder will be looking for these after their hour-and-a-half set.

The roadies for the other band are tearing the place apart as fast as they can, since there is only a twenty-five minute window before Corpse for a Day takes the stage. The guys move into the main room with instruments in hand. Eric wheedles on his guitar, Sid plucks at the thick strings of his blood-dripping bass. The thing looks like it could have been carried by a Viking, and Grinder has always thought it was just as cool as fuck.

Allen strums his guitar lovingly, fingers dancing up the frets, then whipping down again. The guitar is shaped like an ax, and it goes well with Sid’s. When they headbang together, it is a wicked sight.

They pass the remains of the whiskey around, all except Eric, who doesn’t drink anymore. He was a heavy alcoholic but avoids the stuff now like it’s acid.

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