Written by Zachary and Joshua Forbes
Thomas Wylde and Dick Kennedy from Three Rivers Plague and Foot In The Grave
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Check out other works by Forbes Brothers here: https://zacharyforbes1.wixsite.com/forbes-brothers-book
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Burning tendons. Calloused feet. Muscles full of tension and lactic acid. Thomas had been running—fleeing from the dead. He'd been helping to fix a break in the wire along the perimeter of the quarantine zone when something struck him from behind. He'd been surrounded almost instantly, only managing to escape a horde of the dead by scurrying away beneath concrete and rubble.
But he wasn't running anymore.
Right now he was seated in a colorful room with dim overhead lights. The walls were made of musty bricks and the floor was laced with commercial carpeting. There were more people around him, but their postures were straight and their voices were human.
Except for one.
Thomas shot up out of his seat, coming face to face with a leathery man in shredded brown fatigues. His face was peeling off and his teeth were bloodied. Thomas forced his leg up as hard and as fast as his exhausted state would allow, planting a forward stomp into the dead creature’s chest.
“What the heck, man!” the creature replied, reeling back.
Thomas froze. His adrenaline began to calm and his tunneled vision began to clear. He realized the individuals around him were in costumes. Some of them were mannequins. Some were real people. Clowns, monsters, minotaurs, mad scientists.
And a ghoul.
“I’m…uh…I’m sorry,” said Thomas. “Where am I?”
The man dressed like a ghoul gave him a sour look just as the door behind him opened up. A tall man with a lanyard waltzed in and started waving his hands at everyone else.
“Get out of here, the whole lot of you!” the man ordered. “We need this area for stage prep!”
All the costumed characters filtered out in a hurry. Thomas stayed put. He looked back and forth around the room, trying to piece together how he’d ended up here. But there were no windows or balconies. Even the exit door led to more enclosed halls.
“You too,” the tall man commanded, pointing at Thomas. “We need…Wait. You're not-”
The mannequin behind him moved. It had the goat head of a minotaur, but the body of a human with a trench coat and a tie. It reached around the tall man’s neck with its elbow and started to squeeze. The goat head tumbled to the floor as the two men wrestled.
It was Kennedy—Thomas’ detective friend. He’d been wearing his old sunglasses beneath the mask, even in this dark, windowless space. His cheek muscles were scrunched to reveal gritted teeth.
“Where are we?” Kennedy demanded. “Where are my weapons?”
Thomas felt for his waistband, discovering his knife and his shotgun were both missing. Not good.
“This is RinthCon!” the man choked out. “You should've been told when you bought the ticket!”
Ticket? Thomas thought.
“There’s been a misunderstanding,” the man continued. “Our booked show for the final day canceled last minute. We were looking for a replacement.” He sucked in whatever air he could manage and pointed at Thomas. “Are you Thomas Wylde? From the Soul Smashers?”
Thomas and Kennedy’s eyes met, both carrying the same questions. The detective finally relinquished the tall man from his grasp and let him stumble forward.
“Please, we could really use the help,” the man continued, rubbing his neck. “Ticket sales last year were…less than ideal. A performance from the Soul Smashers might be exactly what we need to make this year’s con perfect. What do you say?” He squinted. “You are Thomas Wylde, right?”
“I am,” Thomas conceded.
“Excellent!”
“But the Soul Smashers aren't here. They…We broke up. Literally, I guess.”
“Not excellent.” The man thought to himself for a moment. “Well that's okay. We have you, the voice, so we can just make synthetic replicas of the others. VIP special guests, as I like to call them!”
Thomas blinked twice. “What?”
“It’s no problem really,” the man said. “We do it all the time. Made one for Stephen King this year. He's great! Well, unless you ask about adverbs.”
Nobody spoke.
“Well?” he added.
“Sounds unethical,” Kennedy said.
“RinthCon takes all ethical standards into consideration,” the man said. He reached out to shake Kennedy’s hand. “My name’s Blanc Checkers. I'm an events coordinator for the Saturn Hotel, where this venue is hosted. We usually host big performances here in the stadium though.”
Kennedy didn't shake his hand.
“Can you really recreate my band?” Thomas asked.
“Sure!” said Blanc. “For the length of the con, at least. You'll have the next four days to practice. Sound good?”
Thomas turned to the detective, who couldn’t have expressed less confidence in the idea. Even through the aviator glasses, his eyes were dripping with doubt. It did seem a bit sketchy.
“Will we be allowed to leave?” Thomas asked.
“Most people do,” said Blanc. “But we’ll provide you both with a room for the duration of your stay. We want all our guests to be comfortable.”
After another moment of hesitation, Thomas made up his mind. He put out a palm. Blanc couldn't have grabbed it faster. He shook wildly, practically jumping up and down.
“Excellent! Such great news! You'll have all your accommodations and any instrument you can think of.” He turned to Kennedy. “What instrument do you play?”
“.357,” Kennedy replied.
Blanc said nothing.
“I’m gonna take a walk,” Kennedy said.
Thomas followed him to the door. They ended up in some kind of backstage hall sparsely occupied by employees and lingering cosplayers. There was an ominous underground feeling, and a strange dizziness. Almost like they were spinning.
“You gonna be okay here?” Thomas asked.
Kennedy was feeling his pockets, searching for something. “They took my damn cigarettes too.”
“Is that a no?”
The detective slapped his palms to his sides. His coat rumpled and flapped beneath them. “I don't even know where here is. It feels like a seven-minute Eagles song or something.” He sighed. “Just let me go find a drink while you ‘practice’.”
And then he was off. He pushed a long red curtain out of the way and disappeared off the stage into the bulk of the stadium, towards the nearest exit, which clicked open and latched shut against a steel frame.
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