and I . . .
Can’t wait ’til the morning after,
’cause it’s too late for your chitter-chatter.
I’ll be wrapped up in his arms!
Far away from here!
You had your chance for this romance,
now I’m outta here . . .
Muzi clears his throat as the stage lights go to black. He clicks his claws absentmindedly to the sound of fading drums, lyrics that normally go in one ear and out the other settling right smack-dab in his chest. This is stupid. He should say something, something he won’t erase from Elkin’s mind as soon as he gets a little freaked out. To hell with the consequences, right?
“Um, Elkin?” Muzi mutters. A lone snare drum silences the audience in anticipation of the next song, and Muzi bites his lip. “There’s something I need to tell you. Again.”
Elkin shakes his head. “This is ‘Shockwave.’ There’s no talking during ‘Shockwave.’”
“But it’s sort of important.”
“Then spit it out, already. You don’t need to tell me that you’re going to tell me something. Just tell me.”
The bass guitarist joins the drummer, notes resonating in the pit of Muzi’s stomach. “I’m sorry, it’s just that . . .” His eyes flick up, meet Elkin’s, then settle right over his shoulder at the pair of uniformed men with badges marching toward them. Cops. Real cops. “Run!” Muzi says, jumping to his feet.
Elkin’s head whips around, looking behind him. “Shit!”
Real cops mean real guns. Elkin takes the lead and they dash away along the scaffolding, causing it to sway beneath their feet.
“Stop, you two!” one of the SAPS officers yells from behind. “Don’t make me—”
And then Riya’s voice cuts in, a reverberating note gaining momentum faster than a snowball in an avalanche, sharper than a samurai sword, potent enough to disintegrate eardrums.
The bulbs of the now reprogrammed Diarrhea! marquee crack, just a couple at first, then the rest burst in unison, raining glass down onto the stage. There’s screaming, lots of screaming, but Muzi’s running too fast to see if people are hurt or just scared. Everyone’s nerves are on edge since the terrorist attack, especially in crowded places like this.
Elkin comes to a quick halt, and Muzi nearly rear-ends him.
“What?” Muzi gasps for breath.
Elkin points ahead. The scaffolding dead-ends, another set starting a level lower.
“It’s not far. We can make it,” Elkin says.
“No bladdy way. Let me mind munch them.” Muzi turns to the oncoming cops, their hands firmly on their gun holsters.
“I don’t know, Muzi. You didn’t look so hot last time. I thought you were going to pass out.”
“I can handle it.” Muzi extends his arm toward the cops. They draw, but he’s faster. “You don’t want to shoot us!” he blurts out. Simultaneously, the cops’ arms raise up into the air, but not before one of them gets a shot off. The bullet whizzes past Muzi’s ear and clinks against something behind him.
“Holy hell!” Elkin checks himself over for holes, then Muzi.
“I’m fine,” Muzi says. “Come on, let’s go!”
They run past the cops, but the sound of plinking slows Muzi in his tracks. He looks over his shoulder and sees the long wire cord holding the edge of the scaffolding unravel like a frayed rope. Muzi and Elkin exchange panicked glances.
“The statistical probability that the bullet could have hit that wire is practically nil,” Elkin says calmly, as if reality would somehow agree with his logic and change its mind.
“That’s great. And what’s the probability of us surviving a twenty-meter fall?”
“Surprisingly, it’s twelve and a half percent. For one of us anyway. The odds that both of us would survive would be—”
Muzi grabs Elkin’s coat sleeve and tugs him along. “Snap out of it, and let’s go!”
Too late. The scaffolding sways and pitches. Elkin scrambles and gets a tight hold of the railing, and Muzi gets a good grip on Elkin’s thigh, but the cops, they’ve still got their hands thrown up into the air, and they go sliding toward the platform’s edge.
“Jump!” Muzi commands them at the last possible second, and they both spring forward, sailing over the abyss and landing with a clunk on the opposite side of the scaffolding. Safe.
Muzi sighs with relief.
“Hey, hero,” Elkin says with a quavering voice. “Maybe now you can start scheming over how you’re going to save our asses?”
Yep. They’re both dangling, twenty meters from the end of their lives.
“Can you pull yourself back up?” Muzi asks.
“Not with you hanging on me. We’re screwed, unless you’ve got wings you never told me about.”
“Who needs wings when you can munch minds?” Muzi asks, feeling warmth grow in his chest. He’s getting better at it. Better at controlling, better at handling the aftermath of emotions. He can do this. He concentrates hard, latching on to the minds of more than he’s ever controlled before. From the panicked masses below comes calm, then precision movements as they march to form a circular base to what Muzi hopes will be the highest human pyramid ever built, a pyramid that should find its apex right beneath them, and hopefully break their fall. A mountain rises up a level at a time, constructed of mindless concertgoers with the constitution of stacked cinder blocks. They interlock arms and stand on the shoulders of those beneath them, not nervous, not swaying, just being.
They’ve built five tiers, concentric circles growing smaller and smaller, when Elkin announces, “I don’t think I can hold on much longer.”
“There’s still a big drop,” Muzi says to Elkin.
“Just ten meters, now. Plus we’ve got cushioning.” Elkin does his best to sound optimistic. “But just in case”—Elkin fumbles as his grip slips, his mitt of a hand frantically reaching for another firm hold—“just in case we don’t make it . . . ”
“Elkin!”
“Shut your hole for a second, Muzi. Just in case, I want you to know, I remember Saturday, that Saturday you made me forget. It’s foggy as hell, slippery as a dream right after you wake, but I’ve been holding on, trying real hard not to forget.”