Kiss The Sky Goodbye, Hangman's Jam III: Franz Rock Terror

By Rob Errera

A handful of desperate survivors search for salvation -- and meaning -- in a ruined world. As mythical beasts and interdimensional terrors turn our planet into a nightmarish landscape, a young girl -- and a guitar she built from her father's bones -- holds the secret to making the world whole again. Pulse-pounding dark fantasy that weaves music from monsters and madness. 

Kiss The Sky Goodbye is the world-shaping conclusion of the Hangman's Jam Trilogy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bad Hound Press
• Release date: Apr 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781949043228

Rob Errera

Rob Errera is a writer, editor, musician, and literary critic. His fiction, non-fiction, and essays have earned numerous awards. He lives in New Jersey with his wife, two kids, and a bunch of rescued dogs and cats. He blogs at roberrera.com, tweets @haikubob, and his work is available in both print and digital editions at all major online booksellers.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Smoke On The Water

Damn, this story took a depressing turn! World wiped out. Folks stuck in a basement, ready to kill each other. This is why we need music, people...it lifts us up when times get bad!

But, for a piece of time, after the Big Fall, there weren’t no music left in the world. Even the birds, those that were left, stopped singing. The last notes the world heard came from me, tickling the ivories at the Final Show in Rio. Me and my boys in The Dunwich Horrors played a song that opened a hole in the sky and let the monsters in that ended the world. Well, we had a little help from Allen Vent and The Strange Creations too. The right song, the right players...you can make incredible things happen.

Final Show. Big Fall. You folks like cute names. I do too. Old Smoke Johnson doesn’t need to tell you that. My name’s a joke. So is yours. We all got silly names when you get right down to it. But names have power, too. Even the silly ones. Especially the silly ones. The Big Fall was pretty damn accurate, as far as clever names go. The Final Show, not so much. There’s always another gig...it’s the breaks between that get long.

The Age of Silence. The End of Song. Make up your own name if you want. Whatever you call it, music died the day the sky tore open above Maracana Stadium, and the Great Ones came flooding in. What’s so great about the Great Ones, anyway? Big, dumb monsters stepping all over shit. They make a mess, fight among themselves, and wipe each other out. Guess that was the plan all along.

Her plan.

There’s a love story at the root of all this mess. There usually is. Poke around any pile of shit and you’re bound to find something at the bottom that started out as love. This ain’t a pretty love story. Most aren’t, not the real ones. Pretty love is for books and movies, fairy tales and perfume ads. Real love is ugly, lop-sided and misshapen.

When you’ve lived as long as I have, I’m not even sure it’s called love anymore, at least not the way you think of it. It’s more of a dull ache, a twist of the spine, or the rifle-shot crack of stiff knees. It’s a scar that hurts when the weather’s bad, that you rub unconsciously as you drift off to sleep. It’s deep inside, bone deep. It doesn’t feel real good, but there’s something comforting in it; it’s part of you forever.

Woman named Selena Simpson is the cause of all this ruin...mine and the rest of the world’s. You know her? Last great porn star? No? Maybe this ain’t your when. Selena’s a cold, hard, heartbreaking bitch, but I can’t quit her no matter how old I get. Even as forever stretches to eternity, woman’s got me by the stones.

I’d call her an evil woman, or a black magic woman, but everybody knows there ain’t no such thing as good or evil. Ain’t no magic. There’s only the sea, tossing us together, tearing us apart. Keep afloat and stay in touch with the people around you. We’re all on a surfin’ safari, drowning slow together. Don’t stop kicking. Keep your head above water, people. There are monsters from the deep close to shore, churning the waves, dragging you down with their sheer size.

Folks who’ve met her, call Selena a monster. A pretty monster, but a mean one. But those folks are wrong.

Selena Simpson is the sea. The sand. The earth and the sky. Selena is my love, my forever scar, a song I can’t stop singing.

And frankly, I don’t want to. My love for her is beautiful. Not bad. No, not at all. You gotta know how to use it, how to guide it. I’m sure a lot of people think my song’s a monster, too, but they don’t know. It’s not bad. It just...demands sacrifice.

Yeah, yeah, you’ve heard this shit before, and we’re drifting pretty far afield here. Let’s get back to the Age of Silence. Take music away and life smothers. Doubly so for musicians, like the Boyle Brothers and Thom Thomas. Take music away, musicians get angry...and go mad.

But there are more immediate problems. Like the ocean. Like Selena. She’s coming. I can feel her.

I been waiting a long time for this. Eighty years may not seem like much in the scheme of things, but it’s a boatload of time stuck in a body ain’t yours, especially the last couple years, stuck inside a burnt-up husk...that weren’t no fun at all. It feels like a suit that’s too tight, getting strangled by a necktie. The whole damn world feels like a trap when you’re boxed up inside yourself. It was a trap until now.

So, let’s get this story started on the right foot...or hoof.

I gotta take a shit...and get my hairy ass off this bus.

CHAPTER TWO

Changes

Night covered the road like a blanket, an oil slick the tour bus high beams could barely penetrate. Shapes moved in the shadows, blocking the road one moment, disappearing the next, impossibly big, impossibly fast.

Drive faster! Howard Phillips hunched over Donald’s shoulder, peering into the darkness beyond the windshield. Pedal to the metal, Don.

Can’t see shit, Donald said. What’s chasing us?

Don’t know, Howard replied, glancing at the side mirrors. Nothing but black beyond the end of the bus. Just keep going.

Been driving like a bat outta hell for two hours. We must be a hundred miles from Maracana. How much further?

Keep going, Howard said. Is that a mountain ahead?

Who can tell? The fucking mountains keep moving!

Howard didn’t like the way Donald’s voice cracked.

I may need to spell him behind the wheel. We have to keep moving.

Howard didn’t have a destination; he only knew they had to get away. He wasn’t sure who represented Arkham’s interests now that the Deacons were gone, and he didn’t want to find out. Was there still an Arkham Records? Did they still have interests? Impossible as it seemed, Howard guessed they did. He tried to glimpse the fuel gauge, but Donald’s shoulder blocked his view.

Mr. Phillips, I...I think there’s a problem with Mr. Johnson.

Doctor Corba stood behind Howard. The corpulent doctor looked pale and sweaty, possibly in the early stages of a heart attack. Howard didn’t need more problems.

What’s wrong with Smoke?

He went into the bathroom...twenty...thirty minutes ago.

He’s an old man. He needs time to take care of his private business.

There are sounds coming from in there.

Like I said, he’s an older gentlemen...

Animal sounds.

Howard frowned.

Did you try the door?

Locked.

Animal sounds?

Like...like a big animal.

What does a big animal in a bus bathroom sound like?

A loud bang reverberated from the back of the bus. It sounded like someone kicking through the bathroom door with a cleat.

Christ! Donald exclaimed. What is that?

"Don’t worry about it! Drive! Faster!" Howard started toward the bathroom when a massive blow slammed the side of the bus. The vehicle swerved wildly across the road. Howard grabbed an overhead rail and managed to keep his feet, but Corba fell flat on his back and rolled under the kitchen table. Donald cut the wheel, fighting to keep the tires on the road.

"Christ! What is that?" Donald cried again, his voice an octave higher. 

Thunder rattled the bus. Howard couldn’t tell if it came from the sky, or if something had fallen on the roof.

Steady as she goes, Don. Howard’s voice was low, calm, reassuring. Keep us on the road. Head for the mountain. Just up ahead. We’ll stop there and switch drivers. You can take a break.

How do you know it’s a real mountain? Was Donald crying?

It’s not moving. Look. It’s right there. Another mile or so. Faster, Donnie! Let’s go!

Another blow rocked the bus. Donald screamed, jerking the wheel left and right, but managing to keep the vehicle on the road and moving forward.

What’s attacking us? Why? What did we do? Donald babbled like a frightened child. He drove on autopilot, but Howard was impressed with his skills. Keep it floored, Don!

The dull crack of splintered wood made Howard turn. A brown, hairy limb, like the leg of a colt, knocked the bathroom door from its hinges.

Corba crawled from beneath the kitchen table, but was still on all fours when the creature burst from the bathroom. It howled and jumped on Corba in a brown blur, wrapping its arms around the doctor’s neck.

It’s got arms...human arms...but those legs...

Hooves pinned Doctor Corba’s torso to the floor of the bus, while muscular arms ripped the doctor’s head from his body.

Howard spun, but hot blood still splashed his back.

What is that? What’s happening? Donald screamed, but, to his credit, he kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead.

Doing great, Donnie. Almost there. Just a little further. Words spilled out of Howard’s mouth without thought. Its arms...Corba’s head...

Behind him, the creature snorted, spat a wet wad on the floor, and laughed like a madman.

CHAPTER THREE

There Is A Mountain

I f we can make it to that mountain, we might be safe, Vinny said.

The mountain rose like a jagged green pyramid southwest of the ruins of Maracana Stadium, an unremarkable geologic feature except for the lack of the other mountains around it. Everything was flat or flattened, leaving only the non-descript pointy hill in the distant horizon.

Vinny didn’t want to leave Maracana, but the Atlantic Ocean had other plans.

It’s getting closer each day, Evita reported. And it’s moving faster.

From the upper tier of Maracana they could see for miles and miles in all directions. This narrow wedge, no more than forty seats across, was all that remained of the stadium. The Atlantic flooded Sao Cristovao and Santo Crissto to the north, and encroached several miles inland to the west.

Why is the water red? Vinny asked.

Bacteria? An algae bloom? Evita shrugged. I don’t know.

Blood, Vance said, pointing at the water. The tops of several buildings stuck out of the ocean—skyscrapers aren’t so tall when the sky has fallen—but beyond that was nothing but crimson sea and darkness.

What about the sky? Vinny asked, looking up.

What about it, Vin? Evita sighed. I don’t know what happened to the sky. I don’t know why the ocean is red. All I know is we need to get the girls and get out of here before we’re washed out.

"You’re one of the girls now, Thom," Vinny smiled.

Hopefully I’ll get out of this body soon, Evita smirked. Until then I’d appreciate if you stopped staring at my tits.

Vinny blushed. He couldn’t help himself. Evita was beautiful, even with the burns, even with Thom living inside of her.

Thom! Tits! Vance pointed and laughed. Vinny couldn’t help but join him. It felt good to laugh. Evita scowled, crossed her arms over her chest, and stalked away, which made the brothers laugh harder.

Wait up, Tits! Vinny called out. I mean, Thom.

Tits! Vance echoed loudly, a sliver of drool slipping down his chin.

Vinny took a last look at the ocean before following Evita down. He knew she was right; they had to leave. Immediately. But the idea filled Vinny with dread. After years on tour buses and motels, six months in the ruined basement of Maracana Stadium felt like home. The Dunwich Horrors played their final show here...the beginning of the end. He’d miss the haunted stadium and all its ghosts.

They climbed down to field level, navigating their way around mounds of rubble and twisted metal. Half-a-dozen shapeless white parasites the size of minivans moved slowly over the debris, dissolving and devouring anything organic. There wasn’t much left.

Evita waited by the basement door. Vinny tried to read her face, but couldn’t tell if she was still angry. Teasing Thom lost some of its charm since he’d been reborn in Evita’s corpse. Vinny didn’t feel right mocking the woman he loved.

CHAPTER FOUR

Poppa's Got A Brand New Bag

W e fell in love, Pepper . We were so young, so in love. I’d never been happier...except for the day you were born. Mother absent-mindedly traced the scars on her forearms. The names...those terrible names... It was like our love kept growing...and you grew right out of all that love.

Tell me about the day I was born, Mom, Pepper said, her voice too loud in the empty kitchen. Her mother reached out, and Pepper handed Trish a bottle of water. A rubber band wrapped near the top helped Trish identify it as hers. She uncapped the bottle, drank—dribbling a few drops down her chin—recapped the bottle, and handed it back to Pepper.

You’ve heard that story before.

Tell it again, Mom.

It was very cold the night you were born, even though it was almost the end of May. Mom talking about the past was better...the happy past...

May 21st, Pepper said.

That’s right. The azaleas were blooming, bright purple everywhere, even though it felt like winter. Your Dad got my bag and got us to the hospital. I could tell he was scared, but he stayed calm. He held it together. Your father was always good at calming me down.

Pepper pulled her father onto her lap. She tried to be quiet, but her mother still heard the rattle of bones inside the duffel bag. Trish turned her head toward the sound and made a sour face, but Pepper spoke before her mother could object.

Did Daddy go into the delivery room with you?

Yes. Trish sighed. Good. Better. "He held my hand and looked directly into my eyes because he was afraid to look anywhere else. And then the nurse tapped him on the shoulder and handed us you, and we were finally a family, Pepper, a real family. Your father started crying, and then I started crying, and then you started crying...oh, oh, Bobby..."

How long did we stay in the hospital? When did you and Daddy bring me home? Pepper asked. She shook the water bottle. Trish wiped away a tear. She took the bottle, took a sip, and handed it back. Good. Better. Mom sometimes cried without realizing it. No big deal.

Two nights, and then we were discharged, Trish said. God, we didn’t even know how to put you in the car seat! You were so tiny!

Did Daddy jump? Pepper wasn’t sure. She quietly removed the instrument from the bag. There was a pleasant tingling when she laid her hands on her father’s bones, like the completion of an electrical circuit. Pepper stroked the strings running along his spine. She played a series of notes, strange tones drifting from a hole in her father’s chest, a sound box created by his rib cage and dried, stretched skin.

No, Trish said, but her protests were hollow. Pepper played on. Sometimes she stopped and repeated a series of notes until she was pleased with the phrasing.

Your father taught you to play, Trish said, more statement than question.

We play together, Pepper said, the bones vibrating in her hands, unearthly music filling the basement kitchen like a living fog.

"Why that song, Pepper? Trish’s harsh whisper was accompanied by free-flowing tears. It’s so wicked."

No. It doesn’t have to be, Pepper said, her fingers working the strings. The notes and chords, and the endless switching between the two, came easier, flowing smooth. Daddy says-

The