Natalie were having a conversation, so I took my strawberry soda and wandered past the pool tables at the back of the Dungeon to the glass cabinet standing next to a door marked “Employees Only.” In addition to owning the Dungeon, Leo also collected antiques and curios. He kept his treasures on display, and there was always something new to see.
Like tonight. A complicated-looking machine rested on the top shelf of the cabinet. The machine was roughly square in shape, but it had three notches carved into the side so it looked a little like a giant brass E. Buttons and dials covered the face of the machine and each notch had been engraved with a different design: a spiral shell; a half-sun, half-moon circle; and a staff of music with five notes placed in a rising scale.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Dante asked softly beside me.
I watched his reflection in the glass. He wasn’t looking at the machine. I blushed. “What is it?” I didn’t really care; Dante had a way of really seeing me that sometimes made me uncomfortable.
Dante hesitated. “You’d have to ask Leo.”
“It’s amazing, whatever it is.”
Dante looked out across the crowded floor. “Are you a fan of Zero Hour?”
I shrugged. “They’re okay. Valerie really likes them, though.”
An awkward silence fell between us. “Dante . . .” I started, even though I didn’t know what I was going to say next. I wanted to ask him about his getting-to-know-you list. I wanted to ask him how he’d healed me from the white flashes I’d had. I wanted to ask him to touch me again.
“It looks like they’re about to start,” he said. “I hope you enjoy the show.” He slipped away into the crowd.
Frustrated with Dante’s seeming uncanny ability to appear and disappear at will, I joined my friends at a table with Robert and the girl who turned out to be his new girlfriend, Heather. Just then the lights went down and the show began.
The sound of a ticking clock pulsated through the speakers. Spots of different colored lights flickered across the stage like a rainbow torn from a fractured prism. From out of the swirling darkness came the sound of one, two, three, four sharp staccato beats of V’s drumsticks. The drums rumbled to life with a deep, growling bass beat. The sound crested like a rising wave before crashing down with a splash of golden cymbals and a single white beam of light split the darkness on the stage like a sword.
Zo stood at the microphone, wrenching a single note like a wailing banshee from the silver guitar in his hands, his eyes closed, his head back, his face fiercely beautiful with primal intensity. As the harsh note faded away, swallowed up by the dark, tribal heartbeat of the drums, by the endless rhythm of the ticking clock, Zo opened his dark eyes and leaned close to the microphone. He whispered four simple words.
“It’s time, my children . . .”
A spotlight flashed on Tony standing to Zo’s right. Tony pulled a high note screaming from his guitar and then danced his fingers down the frets, the sound rising, falling, diving, washing over the crowd.
Zo caressed the microphone with his hand and spoke four more words.
“Zero Hour has come!”
As the band launched into the riffs and fills of their hit single “Into the River,” I jumped to my feet, barely aware that everyone else in the club had done the same. It was instinctive. It was inevitable. The music demanded it of us, pulling at us, holding us captive to the driving rhythms of drum and bass. And over it all, Zo’s voice rose like an avenging angel.
It’s time, my children
When the waves rise high
When the waters run deep
When the clock strikes midnight
You’ll feel the mark of Zero Hour
And you’ll never be the same again
I joined my voice to the chorus swelling from the crowd, feeling the past week’s stress wash away from me. The music swept me along like the river’s current the band sang about, a fast and dangerous current, but
Like tonight. A complicated-looking machine rested on the top shelf of the cabinet. The machine was roughly square in shape, but it had three notches carved into the side so it looked a little like a giant brass E. Buttons and dials covered the face of the machine and each notch had been engraved with a different design: a spiral shell; a half-sun, half-moon circle; and a staff of music with five notes placed in a rising scale.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Dante asked softly beside me.
I watched his reflection in the glass. He wasn’t looking at the machine. I blushed. “What is it?” I didn’t really care; Dante had a way of really seeing me that sometimes made me uncomfortable.
Dante hesitated. “You’d have to ask Leo.”
“It’s amazing, whatever it is.”
Dante looked out across the crowded floor. “Are you a fan of Zero Hour?”
I shrugged. “They’re okay. Valerie really likes them, though.”
An awkward silence fell between us. “Dante . . .” I started, even though I didn’t know what I was going to say next. I wanted to ask him about his getting-to-know-you list. I wanted to ask him how he’d healed me from the white flashes I’d had. I wanted to ask him to touch me again.
“It looks like they’re about to start,” he said. “I hope you enjoy the show.” He slipped away into the crowd.
Frustrated with Dante’s seeming uncanny ability to appear and disappear at will, I joined my friends at a table with Robert and the girl who turned out to be his new girlfriend, Heather. Just then the lights went down and the show began.
The sound of a ticking clock pulsated through the speakers. Spots of different colored lights flickered across the stage like a rainbow torn from a fractured prism. From out of the swirling darkness came the sound of one, two, three, four sharp staccato beats of V’s drumsticks. The drums rumbled to life with a deep, growling bass beat. The sound crested like a rising wave before crashing down with a splash of golden cymbals and a single white beam of light split the darkness on the stage like a sword.
Zo stood at the microphone, wrenching a single note like a wailing banshee from the silver guitar in his hands, his eyes closed, his head back, his face fiercely beautiful with primal intensity. As the harsh note faded away, swallowed up by the dark, tribal heartbeat of the drums, by the endless rhythm of the ticking clock, Zo opened his dark eyes and leaned close to the microphone. He whispered four simple words.
“It’s time, my children . . .”
A spotlight flashed on Tony standing to Zo’s right. Tony pulled a high note screaming from his guitar and then danced his fingers down the frets, the sound rising, falling, diving, washing over the crowd.
Zo caressed the microphone with his hand and spoke four more words.
“Zero Hour has come!”
As the band launched into the riffs and fills of their hit single “Into the River,” I jumped to my feet, barely aware that everyone else in the club had done the same. It was instinctive. It was inevitable. The music demanded it of us, pulling at us, holding us captive to the driving rhythms of drum and bass. And over it all, Zo’s voice rose like an avenging angel.
It’s time, my children
When the waves rise high
When the waters run deep
When the clock strikes midnight
You’ll feel the mark of Zero Hour
And you’ll never be the same again
I joined my voice to the chorus swelling from the crowd, feeling the past week’s stress wash away from me. The music swept me along like the river’s current the band sang about, a fast and dangerous current, but
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