Amel was really struggling that day. Her fingers felt heavy, her warm-ups sounded sloppy. The thought of her first live show kept her up all night. What a wonderful opportunity, she kept telling herself. She had only picked up the bass guitar a year ago, and that very evening she’d get to show off all the work that she’d been putting in. All morning her body took her from point A to point B, to C and D, but her mind was preoccupied, distracted. At point B, the laundromat, her gut told her to turn on the radio to drown out the noise. Classical, commercial, talk show, commercial, commercial, “…breaking news: several peop–”, rock, commercial. Forget it, she told herself, as she turned off the radio and started moving her clothes to the drier.
Amel arrived at the bar early for sound check, close to an hour before dinnertime. She was thankful she didn’t forget anything, except the name of her band members. She had found them on the internet two days before. Great hairstyles, she thought. They posted an urgent call for a replacement for their band mate who had abruptly disappeared and wasn’t taking their calls. The band and Amel quickly rehearsed and all the songs held up, she noted down. This one needs more pep in the bridge, that one needs me to wait for a cue from the drums. Everything and everyone were ready for the evening.
At 9PM sharp the band was called on stage. The bar was full and boisterous. Why would they put the stage right next to the kitchen?, Amel thought. She was frustrated too because she was marked closest to the kitchen door and she could hear clatters, chatter, and even a radio. “…another update for you: please shelter in pl–”. A staff member shut the door quickly and Amel was thankful at how well it muffled the sound. Tragically, that door was meant to open and close and nothing she could do would change it.
The band intro was rough, a bit of feedback in the microphones. Drums started. Bass came in. Guitar, keys, and vocals entered the bit. Amel was visibly thrilled for this mash-up and her fingers held up well to the exhaustion and worry that had been plaguing her all day. Nothing, nobody will take this away from me, she thought. A waiter pushed through the door and got it caught on a napkin for a brief period of time. “…sudden urges of violence, the… are attacking indiscriminately. If you can hear us, do not…” These words didn’t register in Amel’s head. She kept her focus on the progression, getting ready for her solo. The crowd clapped and sang. Amel was pleased that acid jazz still had a place in people’s hearts and brains in the year 2005.
First song out of the way, the band gave each other a few looks of approval. They started the second song to cheers and cameras directly pointed at them. This was another banger, with another bass solo that Amel was sure would thrill. She reached the zone again, this time tuning out not just noise but movement. Her focus was infectious and the band caught on. They didn’t register the few but growing looks of concern in the audience. They didn’t register the few patrons who started taking calls and rushing out swiftly. To the band this was a chance to really shine.
The third and fourth songs came and went. The band ended their set with only a few patrons left but much excitement all around. Amel was having a hard time coming down from the high, so she quickly packed up and headed out the backdoor. Ignoring everyone, she beelined to her car to make her way home. She had a long way to go, about 45 minutes, and her car and her mind would give her the refuge she needed to ride out this magical evening.
Fifteen minutes into her ride, full of smiles now that she was alone, Amel turned on the radio. All that came up was static. She scrolled through the channels like she’s used to, but nothing. No service. She tried her cellphone and there was no reception. Amel’s breath was suddenly cut short, her smile gone—the bits and pieces of news that reached her throughout the day came together to form a grim picture of what was happening. I better go back and figure out what’s going on, she told herself.
Amel arrived at the bar’s parking lot and quickly rushed out of the car. She saw people running: running away, running towards each other, chasing, escaping. Her ears were saturated with the cacophony of blood-curdling screams, gunfire, cars starting and stopping. Amel didn’t recognize anyone, and she felt she’d never get to see the band again. She ran to the bar and made it through the front door, her feet crunching on the broken glass all over the floor. The venue was quiet, dark, a shell of what she witnessed only a few hours before. She traversed the dance floor, went into the kitchen and out of it. Nobody was around to meet her panicked stare.
Amel went through the backdoor thinking the band may be taking refuge somewhere. She scanned the alleyway and found two people huddled in the south corner. They seemed to be digging at something, picking it apart. She heard pants, she heard a single rhythmic thump. Darkness blanketed everything around them. Blood rushed to her eyes in an instant, adrenaline fueling her every movement. Suddenly she could see. Two figures were desperately bashing someone’s head onto the pavement. A loud crack and the attackers rushed to savor whatever came out of it. They furiously slurped and panted, smiling, eating as children do when faced with the most scrumptious fruit cup. Amel’s breath stopped, her every fiber telling her to get out of there, her eyes chemically primed to regale in the horror in front. Her body frozen, she immediately noticed a third one in the back, disfigured, gnawing at something bloody, something attached to the hand of whomever’s brain matter lay spilled over the pavement. A leash and collar snapped towards the mangled body as the third one ripped its furry meal in half. This whip-like noise alarmed them all. The figures rushed up, grisly, primal, with gazes black and empty much like the Great Whites that devour everything in their path. They set their eyes on Amel and rushed towards her. Her mind blanked out.
Amel found herself back in the bar, alone, the backdoor locked and barricaded. Her face was soaked in tears and sweat, her mouth and lungs overwhelmed with acrid taste. Her hands, she noticed, were black and red, grainy, painfully hot. She could only think of herself and her bandmates. She wondered what horrors awaited her, awaited them, awaited us all. The sound of limbs and heads arrhythmically crashing against the backdoor wasn’t registering to her, nor could she hear the collective screams of agony, bellows of hunger and hopelessness flooding the entire world in those late hours of the night.
Alone, Amel walked towards the back of the bar and sank in on herself. She put her hands out in front of her face; they felt like they didn’t belong to her anymore. Her hands were now destined for another purpose, a higher one, she intuited. She wiped the tears off her face. Her muscles tensed, her bones itched, and her breath got choppier and more agitated. She heard screams and feet crushing broken glass coming from the main entrance. Out of time, unable to look up, lacking the means to defend herself or even end her own life, she was consumed by the image of the feeding frenzy she witnessed in the back alley. She found the creatures’ hairstyles familiar. She paused. Something changed in her. Amel’s breath started normalizing even as the growling in her stomach grew louder—she began feeling anew, reborn. She felt contentment she’d never felt: her mind focused on a newfound hunger that would give her purpose and take away all of her worries. Music, bands, bills, parents, taxes, love—almost everything was gone now. Fresh hunger quickly and voraciously consumed her. Amel made peace with feeling nothing else ever again.