Rob Zombie - Lords of Salem

He tried to open it but the latch had been painted over and it wouldn’t move. The sash had been painted into the frame, too—fuck, there was no way that thing was going to open—and the window was too small. He might be able to squeeze his way out of the opening if he could get the sash raised, but no way he was getting through by just breaking the glass and trying to squeeze through the frame.

Maybe there was a bigger window in the bedroom, he thought, and turned. There were now, he saw, nearly a dozen of them, as if somehow they were able to multiply when he didn’t look at them. They were nearly upon him. He tried to skirt his way around the edge of them and make it to the open bedroom door, but one of them got its skeletal hand on his shirt and slowed him down. He wrenched himself free, but got loose too quickly and too suddenly and went skidding down to the floor. He tried to get to his feet quickly but one was already wrapped around him before he was halfway up, and then another came, and another and another. He strained his way forward, groaning under their weight and pressure, feeling them scratch at his flesh, tear his skin away, trying, he knew, to make him one of them. He swayed and slammed into the door frame hard and one of their arms fell off, but even so it kept moving, taking hold of his ankle. He shook himself, and a few of them fell off, but more quickly took its place. There, just a few yards away, was the bedroom window. It was big enough. All he had to do was get to it and then he’d be safe.

One of them sunk its teeth into his neck, making him scream. Another took hold of his ear and tried to pull it off. Others were tearing into his stomach and back with their teeth and claws, gouging and ripping, harder than they had been before, as if they grew stronger as he grew weaker.

He stared down, willing his feet to move. The floor around him was slick with blood. It took him a moment to realize it was his own. Just a little more , he told himself.

He took a step forward and collapsed under the weight of them. He tried to push up with his arms and climb to his feet again, but there were too many of them. They sunk their teeth into his arms, and one of them tore his ear off. One of them bit him in the back of the skull, and then worked its fingers into the wound and began to peel his scalp away. He roared with pain and fear, tried again to get up but he was weaker already, all the little wounds adding up. One of them dragged his hand to the side and bit off one of his fingers. Another was slowly running its broken nails up and down his back in the same spot, gradually wearing its way down to bone. All the while they gave moans of pleasure.

He made little motions like he was crawling away, but he didn’t move at all. Slowly the pain grew, eventually becoming so great that he prayed for death. Yes, death would come, but it would come very slowly. When one of them tore out one of his eyes and then the other, it felt like a mercy. And a greater mercy still when he finally lapsed into unconsciousness. But even after that, and even long after he was dead, they kept at him, slowly reducing him to a bloody pulp, making him one of them.

Chapter Fifty-three

Herman stood in the alley outside the Salem Palladium. Fucked is what it was. It looked just as deserted as ever, definitely a fire hazard, and nothing had been done to fix the place up. The windows were even boarded over, and so were the entrances, except for one in which they’d pried the boards off and leaned them against the wall next to it. Nobody taking tickets either. He’d gone in, expecting to see some sort of creepy, horror-show setup, something that’d make the most of the deserted space, but there was nothing backstage. There was just a red curtain with nothing behind it. Real amateur hour. A lot of the theater seats were still in place but the inside was also full of piles of trash and rubble, needles scattered around from where junkies had broken in, the whole place stinking of piss. Herman sighed. It was going to be a long night.

For a while he paced back and forth, smoking a cigar. And where was Whitey? Goddamn, if his car had broken down again already, that was fucking it. Plus, no Whitey meant no Heidi, and there was no way in hell he was going to handle this bullshit alone.

He puffed on the cigar a few more times, paced a little. People were coming in, but just a few, not enough to make for much of a show. What was up with that? Plus, they were all chicks. Every fucking one. Probably not a surprise, considering the way that the Smash or Trash had gone with the Lords track, but it was still one more fucked thing about an already fucked scene.

He pulled out his cell, tried to call Heidi’s number. The phone rang and just kept on ringing. Maybe that meant she was on her way. He hung up and then dialed again.

“Hello,” said a voice. “WXKB. Station manager Chip MacDonald here.”

“Chip, what exactly is going on here?” asked Herman.

“What do you mean?” asked Chip. “Is this Herman?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” said Herman. “Well, for starters I just looked everywhere and there’s nothing. No band. No equipment. Nothing. And for another thing, what little crowd that’s in there is one hundred percent girls.”

“Are people getting upset?” said Chip. “Are we going to have a problem there?”

“No,” admitted Herman. “They’re pretty calm so far. But I can only assume that they’re going to get mighty restless waiting for a show to happen that I highly doubt is going to go on. Eventually it’ll get ugly. There’s no way I’m sticking around when it starts to turn bad.”

Chip began to natter on, trying to calm Herman down even as he got more and more nervous himself, but Herman didn’t want to be calmed down—he just wanted things to be done right. Was that too much to ask?

“And when are you going to get me some reliable help?” Herman finally said. He almost regretted saying it, felt a little guilty about throwing Whitey and Heidi under the bus, but his wife was right: he had to stand up for himself.

Chip was silent for a moment. “Reliable help,” he said slowly. “What do you mean?”

“Where’s Whitey?” said Herman. “Where’s Heidi? Why is it that Herman’s the only WXKB employee here?”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” said Chip. Even over the phone he sounded like he was pulling on his hair. “Hey, look, I wanted to fire Heidi,” he said. “I was all set to, and you, buddy, were the one who convinced me, against my own better judgment to…”

But Herman had stopped listening. Someone was coming down the alley and as they got closer and stepped into the light, he realized who it was.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said. “Heidi’s here after all. Got to go.”

He hung up the telephone with Chip still talking and pocketed it. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and waited for Heidi.

“Where the hell have you been?” asked Herman. “Where’s Whitey?”

“Whitey never showed so I walked,” said Heidi. She looked a little pale and dazed, maybe was on something, but he’d had it out with her once this week already. No point starting bad blood just before the show.

“Are you serious? Goddamn it, what is with that kid? I thought he said his car was fixed.” He looked at his watch. “Fuck, we should get inside. It’s almost showtime. Not that it matters since I can’t find anyone.”

“What are you so uptight about?” Heidi asked.

“I don’t know,” said Herman. “Something about this whole night is really getting under my skin. Something just isn’t right. Feels like a setup.”

“A setup for what?” asked Heidi.

Herman shook his head. “I wish I fucking knew.”

They made their way through the door and up the aisle, taking a seat toward the back of the venue where some of the chairs were still in pretty good shape. There was still no sign of the Lords. Most of the rest of the audience was up front, huddled together. And yeah, he’d been right. All women. Not a single man in the whole place except for him. If he told the warden that, she’d really give him hell.