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Music of the Dead by Matthew Wilson


Music of the Dead
By Matthew Wilson


Mom didn’t want me to go to the concert, not after the murders but I was fourteen now and had sold my comics to afford the ticket.
     The old bat was uncool, so I waited till her bedroom light went off before I clambered down the drain pipe like a clumsy monkey and kept to the shadows along the lawn. At school tomorrow I would be the cool kid who'd listen to the rock god live.
     Hell, I would say we'd become best friends if it made me more popular.
     The armed guard at the gate looked ready to throw me off a cliff as if my ticket were made of crayon streaked paper but I smiled and bided my time and reluctantly he stepped aside. The crypt of Shadows came on stage with their intestine string guitars at midnight. The pained howls of the crucified men around them were a fine backup chorus.
     Beneath the ugly red stars the fleshless maids passed around goblets of blood but I would be in more trouble than ever if mom smelt it on my breath. One small rebellion at a time. I should have bought ear protectors when they brought out the human prisoners and gave their hearts to the watching moon.
     The smell made me drool but I had come here for the music.
     Finally after death now I was living, toasting in the beautiful music my favourite rock band gifted the night. Until I heard the gunfire and the lead guitarist fled from the stage.
     I don't know how the humans found us with their fire but just like that I was a stupid little boy again who should have listened to his mom. When the humans fired their guns, panic took over and a choking stampede rushed for the gates.
     After the war between our kinds, mom warned survival was only possible if we kept to small numbers. Going to a rock concert was madness but I had rotted in my coffin for long enough.
     Broken and bleeding somehow I returned home before the dangerous dawn, still gently humming the terrible lyrics of the crypt of blood. A promise to all monsters that one day we would rise again from the night.
     I hit the hay and pretended to be asleep only for a few moments before a rattle at the window told me mom was back too. Her bloodied goodnight kiss on the cheek told me she had fed well that night but to keep my own neck I never told her where I had been.

     Then I closed my curtains against the burning dawn and dreamt of rock gods, eager for when they rose up against the humans and we could make such beautiful music together.

This story was originally printed in Issue #3. Buy the whole print issue here: https://www.etsy.com/listing/631267104/the-rock-n-roll-horror-zine-3



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