Josh Malerman - Black Mad Wheel

“You a fan of the Danes?” Philip asks, hopeful, yet staring at a ghost, an era he thought was over.

The man nods.

“Yes. I am.”

Philip notices the man’s pressed suit. The lint-free overcoat.

“You looking to record a song?” Philip asks. But he’s only stalling.

“My name is Jonathan Mull. Join me for a drink?”

“We’re in the middle of a session.”

Mull surveys the bar. Takes it in.

“This will only take a moment.”

But Philip knows it’s going to be longer than that.

He leads the man to a booth. On the way, Duane watches. Philip meets his drummer’s eyes and they share a silent worry.

Military? Here?

“You’re an army man?”

Mull slides into one side of the booth, Philip the other.

“Good eye. Military intelligence. Most of my colleagues know me as Secretary Mull. This is about an opportunity for you and the rest of the Danes.”

“A gig?”

“Of sorts.”

“Where?”

“Well, that’s what I’d like to talk to you about.”

“Let’s talk, then.”

“Africa.”

Philip has a hard time believing this. Maybe it’s the shots. Maybe it’s the military.

“That’s gonna cost a lot of money.”

“We’re certainly going to pay you. A considerable amount. A lot. But this gig is a little different from what you’re used to.”

“How different is different?” Hope in Philip’s voice. What already feels like a memory, the last vestige of levity.

Mull tents his fingers on the tabletop.

“You won’t be playing any music with this gig. You won’t be making any noise at all. In fact, you’ll be listening for a particular sound instead.”

Philip looks to his bandmates. He feels a sudden longing, as if painfully watching the way the world used to be.

The Path.

Has he stepped off?

“What kind of sound?” Philip asks, turning back to face the military, to face the change.

“A sound you’ve never heard,” the man says.

And Philip doesn’t doubt it. Doesn’t have any reason to believe that anything is familiar where this man wants to send them.

“Can I hear it?”

“Not here.”

“Why not?”

Mull pauses.

“As you know, Private Tonka, the army’s primary function is to protect the country’s citizenry.”

Philip smiles, but not because what the man has said is funny.

“What kind of sound could put people in danger?”

Mull places his elbows on the table and for a beat Philip sees the top of a reel jutting from the breast pocket of his suit coat. Mull’s eyes travel to Philip’s lips, as if asking him to remove the smile.

It isn’t applicable here, he says without words.

“A malevolent one, Private Tonka.”

Philip is still thinking about that reel.

“You make it sound like it’s alive.”

Mull leans back in the booth again.

“Let’s go somewhere quieter to talk.”

As if cued, the ruckus behind them rises. Larry is lifting one of the Sparklers by the waist.

“Wonderland,” Mull suggests.

“To talk,” Philip repeats.

He could stop this now. Whatever this is. He could say no. I like it here. I don’t wanna go anywhere else. You can’t make us.

“To listen,” Mull says.

A malevolent sound, Private Tonka.

“Give me a minute,” Philip says. “I’ll gather the Danes.”

But even as he slides from the booth, as he crosses the bar to retrieve his friends, Philip is telling himself no, no amount of money, no amount of curiosity is enough to leave all this behind.

And yet, the image of that tape in the military man’s pocket …

Maybe it’s because you can’t see where it’ll lead, Philip thinks, as he plants a hand on the shoulder of Ross’s corduroy jacket. Maybe it’s because people can’t see the end that they agree to begin.

“What’s up?” Ross asks. But Ross saw the man, too.

“This fella wants us to go up to the studio. He’s got a reel he wants us to hear.”

Ross hesitates.

“He’s army.”

“Yeah.”

“Is there any money in it?”

“He said it’s ‘considerable.’”

“Is that for them to consider or for us?”

“He said it’s a lot.”

Ross looks to Larry, dancing down the bar.

“Then we’ll come right back down?” he asks Philip.

“Yep,” Philip says.

But the two friends stare into each other’s eyes for a beat, and in that brief rhythm is the truth that they both know they won’t be right back down.

“What is it?”

“A sound.”

Ross smiles. But it’s not a nice one.

“Well, shit, Philip,” he says, sweating now. “How much trouble can one sound be?”

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