The Scream Read online

  THE SCREAM

  JOHN SKIPP &

  CRAIG SPECTOR

  * * *

  THE SCREAM

  It emerged from the war-torn jungle,

  where insanity was just another word for survival,

  and death was the easy way out.

  THE SCREAM

  It came to America with a dream of power,

  an army of believers, and the will to make it happen.

  Tonight you will hear it.

  Tonight you will understand.

  THE SCREAM

  It is the sound at the heart of the nightmare.

  THE SCREAM

  A masterwork of modern horror by

  John Skipp and Craig Spector

  authors of The Light at the End and The Cleanup.

  * * *

  PRAISE FOR THE CELEBRATED AND CHILLING NOVELS BY JOHN SKIPP AND CRAIG SPECTOR

  “These guys are amongst the frontrunners of modern horror. Skipp and Spector take you to the limits. . . then one step more.”

  —Clive Barker

  “Slam-bang-no-holds barred horror for those with stout hearts and strong stomachs.”

  —T.E.D. Klein

  “Skipp and Spector give you the worst kind of nightmares.”

  —George Romero

  * * *

  THE SCREAM PLAYED ON

  Perry found Cyndi where she had hidden, under some Anne Klein originals on her mommy’s closet floor. She was dragged out easily. Noisily.

  Beautifully.

  Then his friends came in, and they held her down on the thick white shag. The music downstairs was still pounding up through the floorboards. The screaming had long since died off. “Gonna be my baby tonight,” he said, and then helped himself to a few of the things she would no longer be needing.

  Her T-shirt.

  Her eyes.

  * * *

  Bantam books by John Skipp and Craig Spector. Ask your bookseller for any you may have missed:

  THE LIGHT AT THE END

  THE CLEANUP

  THE SCREAM

  * * *

  * * *

  THE SCREAM

  A Bantam Book / February 1988

  Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint the following:

  “It’s No Game.” copyright © 1980 by Jones Music. Used by permission. “Here Comes the Flood,” by Peter Gabriel. Used with permission of Peter Gabriel Ltd. Administered In USA & Canada by Run It Music, Inc. All rights reserved. “Once In a lifetime,” by The Talking Heads. Copyright © 1980,1981 Bleu Disque Music Co. Inc., Index Music, & E. G. Music Ltd. Used by permission of WB Music Corp. All rights reserved. “Billion Dollar Babies.” by Alice Cooper courtesy of Alive Enterprises. “Mother Stands for Comfort” (Kate Bush), copyright © 1985 by KATE BUSH MUSIC LTD. All rights for the US and Canada controlled by SCREEN GEMS-EMI MUSIC INC. “The Working Hour.” copyright © 1985 Virgin Music (Publishers) Ltd. and 10 Music Ltd. All rights controlled by Virgin-Nymph Music Inc. Excerpt from THE THIRD WAVE by Alvin Toffler, copyright © 1980 by Alvin Toffler By permission of William Morrow & Company. “Just One Victory” by Todd Rundgren, copyright ©1972 by Fiction Music. Inc., Todd Rundgren and Screen Gems Music.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1988 by John Skipp and Craig Spector.

  Cover art copyright © 1988 by Stan Watts.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

  in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopying, recording, or by any information

  storage and retrieval system, without permission in

  writing from the publisher.

  For Information address: Bantam Books.

  ISBN 0-563-26798-1

  Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group. Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered In U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and In other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10103.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  KR 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  * * *

  Table Of Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  INTRO - CYNDI’S PARTY

  THURSDAY, JUL 12 - DIAMOND BAR, CALIFORNIA

  SIDE 1 - THE JACOB HAMER BAND

  ONE

  THURSDAY, SEP 3 - NYC

  STEWARTSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  FRIDAY, SEP 4

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  SIDE 2 - ROCK AID

  SATURDAY, SEP 5 - JFK STADIUM

  SIDE 3 - THE SCREAM

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  SUNDAY, SEP 6 - JONESTOWN, PA

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  SIDE 4 - RAISING HELL

  MONDAY, SEP 7 - LABOR DAY - PHILADELPHIA

  8:00:00 PM - SYMPHONY OF DEATH

  8:00:31 PM - EXPOSITION

  8:03:30 PM - DEVELOPMENT

  8:09:33 PM - RECAPITULATION

  OUTRO - AND THE DAYS GO BY

  MONDAY, MARCH 23 - STEWARTSBURG, PA

  MEAT THE AUTHORS

  * * *

  For Jim and Tammy

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The authors have long been accused of writing acknowledgment pages worthy of an Academy Awards acceptance speech, and show no sign of curbing this impulse. Oh, well. We’d like to express our deepest thanks to the following people for their friendship, support and/or endurance:

  Lou, Janna and the fun folks at Bantam, Adele, Richard and Richard of ALA, Beth and Tappan for the deluxe TK/BAM! mix, Doug Winter for handy backward masking tips, Marc at JFK and Donna at Spectrum for the tours, the guys in Iron Maiden for the great show, Linda and the folks at Broadway Shakespeare & Company for being there the day the Mac died, Marcia and Ray for the MIDI raps, Fern Drilling for Lamaze coaching, Frank Zappa and his people for the Z-Pak, Marianne and Lori for love, insights, and infinite patience, and a very special thanks to George Ihm for his technical advice and historical anecdotes. Their help made this book what it is today. Lord, have mercy upon them.

  We’d also like to thank Lucius Shepard, Dave-boy Schow, Stephen Meade, Turtle Beach, Leslie and Adam, Matt, Alli, Steve, Tony, Brian, Sally Vicious, Pete and Gail, Jim and Lois, our families and, once again, everyone we mentioned in the last books.

  We quite possibly couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks.

  * * *

  “In Germany they came first for the Communists and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Communist. Then they came for the Jews, and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Jew. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a trade unionist. Then they came for the Catholics, and I didn’t speak up because I was a Protestant. Then they came for me—and by that time no one was left to speak up.”

  —Pastor Martin Niemoller

  “This is the working hour.

  We are paid by those

  Who learn
by our mistakes.”

  —Tears for Fears

  * * *

  * * *

  THURSDAY, JULY 12

  DIAMOND BAR, CALIFORNIA

  Perry’s eyes were gone, but that didn’t really matter. The old biblical quote had been set on its head. Perry had no eyes, yet he still could see.

  Let Jesus suck on that one for a while.

  Dr. Wyler’s Wreck Room was a California dream of exposed brick and stucco, adobe reds and desert-sand tans. On the far side of fifty, and the man had style. The Wyler home was typical for the Diamond Bar area: a gracious, comfortably elegant split-level that oozed organically upward mobility and San Gabriel Valley chic. Every line, every curve was clean and crisp and new; every room was tastefully decorated in opulent woods, burnished brass and natural fabrics.

  But the sprawling downstairs rec room was the best. There was a well-stocked wet bar across from the wall-to-wall sliding glass patio doors that led to the pool; there was a Neiman Marcus dart board and tapestries woven by some nameless Mexican peasant on either flanking wall. Matte black CapriTrack lighting above, oak parquet floor below, potted midget palm trees and ficus trees to either side. The giant Sony Trinitron that filled damned near one whole corner of the room glowed like a portal to another dimension. The little driftwood nouveau rustic “Wreck Room” sign hung askew above enough matching leather sofa modules to accommodate six swinging couples, and the far corner of the playland held the most luxurious expanse of veld-green pool table that Steve Beeker’s seventeen years had yet born witness to.

  It was a great place for a party.

  Too bad Dr. Wyler and his wife could not attend.

  In the Wreck Room, the post-concert funzies were out of control. No surprises there. Fifteen drug-crazed Screamers, Steve noted, doth not a Tupperware party make. They were dancing to the sonic boom of the Bang + Olufson stereo, making out or passing out in the corners. They were spilling drinks and leaving little cigarette burns on the modular sofas, the green felt plateau, the burnished wood of the bar and the floor. They were wired on coke and smoke and tequila and beer.

  Most of all, they were wired on The Scream.

  “Best fuckin concert I ever seen!” Deke bellowed, and Steve was inclined to agree. Just more quietly. He prided himself on being a bit more thoughtful than most of the headbangers he hung out with. But the music they loved was the music he loved; and it was nice to know that even someone as monosyllabic as Deke could appreciate The Scream.

  Steve looked over at the viddy: MTV was doing its heavy rotation number on The Scream’s cut “Filet of Soul”, from their double-platinum debut album. The band had opened the first show of their coast-to-coast MegaTour with it, less than three hours ago. The video was great, in itself: all sex and drugs and rock and roll, the way it should be.

  But the visuals inside his head were better. If he closed his eyes, and was very very still, he could almost transport himself back . . .

  . . . to the sixth row, center, staring straight up what little there was of Tara Payne’s skirt as she hip-ground her way to the edge of the stage. He could see the slash of razor-thin Mylar that obscured the oriental perfection of her features; he could see the wild black sweat-sheened hair that whipped like a thousand razor-tipped serpents. Her fine-boned beauty was almost painful to behold, and her face was matched only by her form. He had never seen so many curves move so well on one body. Every gesture was snake-and-mouse time; sixty seconds in and he was ready to die.

  The band thundered up through the changes: Rod Royale, the imperious lead guitarist, dressed like a crown prince of darkness in studded leather and lace, cock-strutting his way across the stage as twin brother Alex did his Amadeus-gone-mad number on the banks of synths and Gene and Terry laid down the law in tight-knit syncopation on the bass and drums.

  Theirs was the undisputed claim as the tightest band in the lexicon of postmetal cyber-thrash, but they were much more than that. They were more than a fashion, more than a credo. They were magic. They were a way of fucking life.

  When Rod and Alex played, yes.

  But especially when Tara sang.

  On the video, she was just beginning her leap to the kill . . .

  “I want your body.

  No bones about it.

  Want you to know that

  I can’t live without it.”

  Steve Beeker opened his eyes, caught himself in the mirror behind the bar. He was pleased to note that he didn’t look nearly as loaded as he felt. The wraparound shades helped, of course; so did distance from the mirror, and the long dark locks that fell artfully across his face. At the ripe old age of seventeen, he was a five-year veteran of the drug abuse wars. He could handle his shit.

  Or hide what he couldn’t handle.

  Which was more than he could say for some of the boppers at this party: his adorable hostess, in particular. Cyndi Wyler careened past his reflection, Eddie propping her up, her lithe limbs like rubber.

  “Barbie Meets Gumby,” Eddie muttered, and laughed. Steve smiled and shook his head. It was true. Like the party, she was out of control.

  Cyndi Wyler was the fifteen-year-old daughter of the doc. Leaving her alone for the weekend might not have been the wisest idea. Blond and built like a Nordic pinup goddess, she was all tits and tan and even, perfect teeth. Had the I.Q. of a toaster oven. All in all, the most likely candidate for statutory rape that Steve could imagine.

  Especially in the loving hands of Eddie Hansen: The Cock Without a Conscience. Watching him in action was like watching a panther toy with its lunch: the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Steve hoped that they would name one of the kittens after him.

  “Yo, Eddie!” he yelled. Eddie turned. Cyndi did a centrifugal Snap-The-Whip, teetering at the end of her escort’s arm. Her blue eyes were blank and shiny bright.

  “Now what,” Eddie droned, his face a death’s head picture of gaunt, practiced arrogance. His hair was high and black, trailing down long in the back and shaved to the roots above his temples, in direct tribute to The Screamer look perfected by Rod and Alex. It gave his features a cadaverous appearance, offsetting the coldest smoldering eyes in Diamond Bar High. He turned on one hip, expertly flipping the trailing edge of his black canvas longcoat back over one leather-clad leg. What his garb didn’t state outright, his shit-eating grin completed. He was young, vicious, amoral, and genuinely enjoying himself. He was a Screamer to the bone.

  “You’re not going to sexually abuse that poor girl, are you?”

  “Kinda looks that way, don’t it?”

  “Promishesh, promishesh,” elucidated Cyndi. She giggled, lost her balance, and gravity made its move. “Oops!” she added, then landed face-first in Eddie’s armpit and giggled some more.

  “So long as she knows what she’s doing,” Steve counseled.

  “Look at it this way, dude. Either she’ll love it or she won’t remember a thing.”

  “Or both!” she cried, then began to howl with laughter. Her arms clung weakly to Eddie’s chest. She quivered and quaked. He shrugged. Steve echoed the gesture.

  “Better get her to bed, before she throws up”—Steve grinned ruefully as Eddie nodded and turned away, his tootsie in tow—“you miserable shit,” Steve concluded, just loud enough to hear. Eddie laughed and headed up the stairs.

  The bitch of it was, Eddie really was a shit. Not in the twenty-four-hour-a-day sense: he was funny, he was cool, he was gracious with his drugs. It was mostly in the way he treated girls and other perceived inferiors: humor ‘em, use ‘em, wad ‘em up, and chuck ‘em.

  John Masey came up beside Steve, his bleary gaze following the couple up the stairs. He was dressed in gear almost identical to Steve’s or Eddie’s or any of the two dozen other Screamers in attendance, but somehow it hung all askew. It was fairly clear that Masey was doomed to trudge through life, perpetually harnessed with the “wrong way” caption to Eddie’s “right way,” and he damned well knew it.

  “Sorta gets to you, d
oesn’t it?” he said, swigging off a Grolsch bottle. “Fucker gets all the fine little foxes.”

  “I like to picture him in thirty years, with a watermelon gut and no hair.”

  Masey laughed. He was high enough to picture it. “Just a good thing Dempsey’s not here. You know how the little creep is about Cyndi.”

  “Yeah.”

  Oh, yeah. Steve knew how Perry Dempsey was, alright. He could still clearly see the flicker off the knife’s bright blade, even from a three-week distance.

  “Why do you think he’s not here?” Masey asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  The point of the knife had placed a deep dry dimple in the soft flesh under Beeker’s chin and held it there, for what had seemed like a very long time. “Eddie ditched him at the concert. Lost him in the crowd.”

  Beeker smiled and looked amazed. It was common knowledge to everyone in Diamond Bar that little Perry Dempsey had a man-sized chubby for Cyndi Wyler. “Wow,” he said. “What did he tell Cyndi?”

  “‘Perry found another ride.’”

  Steve laughed. Three weeks ago, he hadn’t found it funny at all. I don’t know what I’d do if anybody ever hurt her. Perry had said in his quivery little voice. Steve had chuckled non-committally, waiting for him to buzz off.

  I might do this.

  And the knife came up.

  Steve, to his credit, had diffused the weirdness: not reacting at all save to reply ever-so-calmly, I don’t think that would be a very good idea.

  It had worked, somehow. So much for the entertainment value of insane jealousy. The knife had held momentarily, grazing the softly stubbled skin beneath his jawline, as if weighing the wisdom of ploughing upward.