CARLOS & KATRINA

A Novel by Charles Adrian Trevino
Copyright 2006, 2021
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Chapter 45

Carlos stood at the edge of the high stage, gazing downwards at the boistrous crowd pressed tightly against the front of the wooden barrier below him. The buzzing hot-music zealots couldn't move, locked into place by the pressuring masses behind them. Spurred on by the hard-edged, but still very melodious rock music thundering out of the overhead speakers, they were surging and ebbing like the ocean tide, having a raucous good time. The four-piece Cool Banditos band was just finishing up their opening set, setting the crowd up for Steven the Cat, whose popular, resonating acoustic songs would mellow the crowd down a bit. Carlos was finishing up his last solo of the song they were about to end, linking together intricate but raw-sounding guitar lines that growled, cried and stung, as the crowd responded appreciatively. The in-house Rothman-Arena lighting and special effects technicians had allowed Frank Fortune to use some of their expensive light-show equipment for a reasonable fee, which Fortune had gladly paid. The effect had been spectacular; the colorful rays that strobed and spun wildly across the stage created a phantasmal fantasy ambience which titillated the audience and the musicians' senses, inspiring them to play beyond themselves.

The cash-strapped Fortune had wanted them to include the full range of effects, i.e., ascending tongues of flame, smoke bombs going off in different colors, dry ice, colorful clouds of swirling mist, etc. -- but their tight budget had forbidden it. So they had just gone with the special lighting, and had been grateful in the end. Everything had gone wonderfully, and the band was winding down their last song of their set; generous applause was already washing over the four musicians, as they began to draw closer together for a last goodnight blast. Mitch Starkley finished off with a short but stunning drum and cymbal grand flourish, and suddenly it was over.

The colorful rays of the light-show machines quickly faded, replaced by the bright white light of the overhead lamps. As the boys stood in place, basking in one continuous sonic onslaught of thunderous applause, they felt relieved; that had been their last encore. Now they were going to relax in comfort and enjoy the fabulous acts that were coming up right on their heels -- it was party time.

As the deluge of cheers and applause kept pouring forth onto the stage, showing no signs of ebbing, David Slasher looked away from the audience and began to peruse his immediate surroundings suspiciously; something had been bothering him about this place, from the start. For one thing, the crew at the Rothman-Loews arena had seemed extremely hostile to the performing artists and their respective entourage; in fact, they seemed to be trying to rattle and demoralize them, making loud jokes about extinct dinosaurs, and dead-ass hippie guitarists blown off the stage by rage-rock virtuosi. This happened at certain venues that were considered Usher strongholds -- jerk idiots running the place, blasting their rage-rock and speed-metal pap music through the huge speakers before and after the concert started, and bad-vibing any older, classic-rock acts that had the misfortune of playing in their stadium or concert hall; it hadn't really surprised him. But then a Rothman-Loews employee who was entirely clad in black, including sunglasses and cap, had started giving David menacingly mirthful looks; his eyes were just begging for a fight. Slasher ignored the moron -- he was much too busy to fight with some disgruntled little grunt. But it had all served to put him on edge... as he had been for the entire tour. Slasher was now most definitely worried about Carlos' safety.

He recalled how Katrina had come to him in tears, confiding that she was sick with worry over what Jacob Rosenberg might do to Carlos... because it had been she that had had Jacob kidnapped and left stranded, far away from home or help. She told him that Jacob already knew that it had been Katrina behind his kidnapping, and apparently hadn't told anyone, for obvious reasons; but she agonized that he would seek some sort of sick revenge... like sending more goons after Carlos, but this time better financed and better-skilled goons. She had implored him to watch over Carlos throughout the tour, and to use his karate skills again if anyone should try to harm him. David had promised to protect Carlos, and had confided to Katrina that he feared just the same thing she did -- but he hadn't told her that his own list of suspects was somewhat longer than her single-suspect one. David had a more elevated view of the situation, and could see potential dangers lurking all around; these dangers could no longer be ignored. Therefore, Slasher now never went out anywhere with Carlos without packing his fully loaded, concealed gun, and a full load of clips in his pocket as well.

Slasher even wore the gun onstage, concealed under loose clothing, during all of their performances. He did this even on hot days, bearing the discomfort, for reasons that might seem insane to anyone else; the mystery men that controlled television programming had been interrupting the scheduled shows more often now, inserting short cartoon skits depicting mock classic-rock icons getting blown away, literally, as in shot dead, by rage-rockers and heavy-metal gunslingers. And the victim of these assassinations, the ultimate fall-guy clown the viewers were supposed to laugh at, always appeared to be the same dark-skinned, ragged-clothed Mayinkan cartoon character, strumming his banjo... Carlos. He was the personal clown of some crazy sex-goddess, according to the Usher animation revisionists, who also regularly featured a buxom, olive-skinned dingbat/beauty whose name, oddly enough, was Katrina.

Slasher had always been contemptuous of people who would establish some kind of insipid "bond" with a television or radio celebrity, one who always seemed to know everything, and then go running to that marionette's show looking for a word of advice on some personal matter -- he knew people who actually did that. These poor, confused people actually let themselves be brainwashed into thinking that "somebody up there" liked them, was looking into their personal affairs, could see everything that was going on everywhere, and was tacitly exposing their enemies and offering them excellent advice through the media, from their elevated godly viewpoint -- and it was all for their own good! Slasher lived his life independently of whatever the media was putting down, and wanted no part of the subtle brainwashing. Occasionally he would turn on the t.v. to watch an older movie -- or the news, to see if anything really bad was going on. It usually just made him laugh, so absurd did everything seem these days. But things like these assassination cartoons, which featured a Carlos-like character repeatedly getting blown away onstage, were unnerving; he could only conclude that somebody frighteningly sick was going to a lot of trouble trying to tell people something, especially Carlos. And this unknown sickie had the power to interrupt regularly scheduled t.v. programs and interject short, asinine cartoons at his own discretion, with no explanation whatsoever given. It was a sobering thought, indeed.

Carlos had surely attracted a lot of enemies in his short life, David thought; yet he seemed to be the easiest-going guy in the world, under normal circumstances. Therefore, David had concluded that his problem's origins must lie with the people who were unilaterally allied against him, as always: the Ushers. The bullies. And there were some extremely formidable Usher bullies who surely must have gotten mad over Carlos' recent bold musical attack on them, and wanted him punished... perhaps even killed. Could the pop-up cartoons be a warning from some emotionally skewed, but still very rich Usher who was trying to tell Carlos to toe the line? Or that it was too late to toe the line, perhaps?

Slasher swiveled his head all around, quickly now; something was definitely looking amiss... something he couldn't put his finger on, even as began to smell the faintest trace of smoke. "Nothing... just a cigarette," he thought, relaxing a bit -- forgetting that cigarette smoking had been outlawed in public places. His three band members were still standing around in a group, waving thanks to the generously applauding audience; David had placed himself just behind and to the side of Carlos, where he could see in all directions. Everything looked normal, but he still felt tense; instinctively, he sensed that something bad was about to happen... any minute now...

Suddenly a loud commotion flared up towards the middle of the hall, as a series of small explosions that sounded like gunfire crackled through the building. A second later another series of firecracker-like reports burst through the closely-packed area closer to the front; this was followed by a much larger explosion to Slasher's left, that sent smoke and shards of sharp, shiny material flying through the crowd and onto the stage area. A second later a similar explosion occurred on the other side of the stage to his far right, showering people there with debris as well.

As people on the stage and in the audience began to panic and scream, pushing each other to get to the aisles and exits, David glanced towards Carlos. He was undoing his guitar strap, his head jerking about, trying to look around in all directions at once; Slasher could feel his terror, and it was contagious... something was about to happen; somebody was about to try something. Something evil.

"Get away from me... what the hell are you doing?" a loud, deep voice bellowed, just off the front of the stage. Other voices began to rise in violent, heated exchanges as bedlam erupted throughout the audience. Slasher quickly undid his own guitar strap, letting the expensive instrument fall to the floor. Reaching around behind his back, he lifted up his jacket and drew the large, heavy pistol out from the holster on his belt. Holding it down as inconspicuously as possible at his side, he kicked his guitar away from him and scanned the surrounding area, straining his eyes for a single gunman, fearing there would be more than one...

"Get your goddamned hands out of my pocket!" someone yelled loudly, very close by; then suddenly all hell broke loose, as the overhead main lights went completely out, leaving the tightly-packed crowd in an eerie semi-darkness -- until the fantastical light show suddenly and inexplicably began to flare up again, sending colorful beams flashing wildly all around the stage, and also through the confused and terrified crowd. A second later, a big load of the flamethrowers and smoke bombs that Fortune had coveted for his boys' show began exploding all around, confusing and obscuring the mad scenario even more -- all done free of charge.

Slasher took another quick glance at Carlos. The terrified guitarist was still looking around helplessly, not knowing where to run; surrounded and hemmed in by his own band members, roadies, and other panicking bystanders, he knew that he could not have escaped anyway, to any place. Then, apparently devoid of all hope, Carlos raised his guitar to his chest in a last attempt to shield himself from what he must have known was coming. Seemingly resigned to his fate, he just stood there looking downwards, as if he were lost in thought waiting for a bus on the street corner.

Then, through the thick smoke and panicking, jostling bodies, Slasher saw Carlos' assassin approaching, calmly and purposefully striding forward through the war zone like some kind of robotic killing machine. He was tall, dark-haired, and wore dark sunglasses and a long, black leather jacket, the perfect outfit for concealing a large, deadly weapon. David marked him instantly, and his hand tightened on his own weapon. The man was coming up on Carlos from an angle slightly to the guitarist's left, very quickly, and as David watched intently, he started to reach inside of his jacket for something. David inhaled sharply and raised his weapon, as a countdown started to run down in his mind; something was telling him that he needed to know for certain what the man was about to pull out of his jacket, before he started shooting. It was a voice that he wanted to listen to, but couldn't afford to anymore... if he hesitated just one more second, Carlos might be lost. His finger tightened ever so slightly on the trigger, waiting... another quarter-second...

Slasher's finger had already started squeezing on the trigger when Carlos, who had apparently also caught sight of the approaching terminator, inexplicably threw aside his guitar and stepped directly in front of David, to face his executioner. Cursing, Slasher jumped over to his right, but still couldn't see the assassin; Carlos was directly in the line of fire, his back turned to him. David had never disclosed to anyone that he was going onstage armed now, fearing resistance from Carlos -- and so, the ill-fated young musician had simply accepted what he thought was just another dreadful but inevitable occurrence, and was ready to accept his fate... forever.

"Carlos, drop down! Drop, DROP!" Slasher half-yelled, half-screamed the words, feeling an immense rush of relief as he saw Carlos respond instantly, throwing himself to the ground. As soon as he'd regained sight of the black-suited hit-man, Slasher began squeezing the trigger. With steady hands clasped tightly together, he fired off round after round as quickly as he could. He could hear the sound of his own gunfire coming from somewhere far away, it seemed, as he watched Carlos's assassin fall to the floor through a smoky haze, a submachine-gun dropping from his now limp hands.

With the crazy, flashing light show still going off full force around him, Slasher quickly slid another clip into his gun. Raising it up to eye level again, he revolved completely around, scanning the area surrounding Carlos for more hired killers. The yelling and screaming of the terrified crowd, packed too closely together to stampede, seemed to be coming to him from a great distance also; the entire scene was like something out of a surrealistic nightmare. More smoke bombs began to explode all around the stage area, obscuring Slasher's vision and distracting him from his vigil; he started to cough and curse again, in helpless frustration. Then he saw him.

It was the same black-suited grunt with the dark glasses and hat that had tried to provoke him earlier... but now he was coming up fast on David, running, carrying a deadly looking weapon in his hands. But he wasn't looking at Slasher at all... the hit-man was smiling as he looked down at Carlos, who was still kneeling on the floor, looking up. Carlos had spotted the man, and was helplessly watching another assassin coming upon him again. "He must think I've run out of bullets," Slasher heard himself thinking. He thought he heard himself laugh, but wasn't sure; he wasn't sure of anything anymore, and never would be again, from this moment on.

As if in a dream, David found himself striding calmly towards the smiling assassin, firing round after round as he advanced, until he was only a few feet away from the black-suited mercenary. The man had fallen to the floor in a bloody heap and was lying face up, dead and motionless. Standing over him, David quickly emptied the rest of his clip into the man's heaving chest, then calmly took another from his jacket pocket and reloaded his gun. Swiftly raising it back up, he rotated around once again, looking intently for another gunman.

The scene all around him was sheer madness, as the frightened crowd began a confused and disorderly, but admirably restrained exodus, progressing bumpily and noisily down the main aisles towards the exits. Smoke was obscuring his vision, but Slasher could see no immediate threat coming his way through the swirling, moving bodies. Lowering his gun, he whirled around to check on Carlos. The bandleader was staring up at him, a look of grave concern... and reverence... showing on his face.

"Got more bullets?" Carlos asked in a low voice, as if he were afraid of being overhead by someone.

Now Slasher definitely heard himself laughing; Carlos knew exactly what had happened. Some people had tried to kill him, and David, who had never killed anyone before in his life, had killed them. He was to be Carlos's eternal savior/hero for life now, he realized; this he found extremely funny, for some reason. But now was not the time to be clowning around.

"Yeah, plenty more. C'mon Carlos, we gotta' get out of here right now... the house is in on this!" Pointing his gun well away, Slasher knelt down and started to pull Carlos to his feet, but there was no need. The guitarist quickly sprang up under his own power.

"I know, I know," he said, looking desperately around. Then, turning to face Slasher, Carlos looked directly into his friend's eyes. "David... thanks, man. Thanks."

David flashed him a quick smile. "No problem, amigo. But Carlos, we gotta' get the hell outa' here, fast... they want to kill you, right on this stage! The worms!" He practically spat out the words.

"But where the hell? They must be everywhere, backstage..." Carlos began to panic now; he was standing in the middle of some ungodly scene out of his worst nightmare, and he was feeling his vulnerable mortality; somebody with power, a lot of power, was trying to kill him, right here and now. He was like a fly trapped in a spider web, and he felt just about as helpless; with sinking heart, Carlos asked himself the obvious question: wasn't resistance futile? Should he not just stop struggling, and simply watch as the hideous, bloodsucking arachnid advanced on him?

At the same time, Carlos' mind was working furiously, searching for a solution to his immediate problem. The people who were behind this attack had money, and therefore power... but just how much? If they were just some rich but stupid rock-industry moguls, their power was finite... he still had a chance, if he could get away from their evil stronghold, the arena he was now trapped in. Then they would have to stop and regroup, to try again... it would buy him a little more time, and time had become very precious to him now.

However, if somebody less bumblingly stupid wanted him terminated... if someone at the top wanted him dead... then there was nothing to be done, except wait helplessly for the inevitable. Carlos knew that could very well be the case. He had always tried to act as urbanely as possible around people, in spite of the years of abuse he had suffered... all because he had lost his youthful temper, under very trying circumstances. But his circumstances hadn't mattered one bit to these merciless savages; they had attacked him very early in his life, before he had any concept of how to properly defend himself against such vile and powerful adversaries. He had had to learn everything young, and fast. He had endured a severe, long-running psychological battering, and now he was reacting predictably enough; he was completely fed up and disgusted, and he was showing it now.

But Carlos had already learned something about the price to be paid for not controlling his rage, and it was a lesson not easily forgotten, whether he wanted to or not. And he now had another soul to worry about, as well; it was not just Carlos versus the world anymore. It was to be Carlos and Katrina from here on, and if he wanted to go on, he knew that he would have to modify his tactics -- tone down his aggression somewhat. He had encumbered himself; he now had a stake in life, something to slow him down and make him more cautious... more reserved... more subdued. And it was going to be worth it, Carlos had decided.

Snapping back to reality, he realized that David was yelling excitedly at him. "Carlos! Let's go!" Slasher had ahold of his arm, and was shaking him hard.

"What about Billy and Mitch?" shouted Carlos, looking around again. He couldn't see his drummer and bass man through the smoke; where were they? What had happened to them?

"They'll be alright, they don't want 'em! They want you, Carlos, we gotta' get out of here now, fast! There's gotta' be more coming..." David raised his gun and scanned the area around him once again.

"But where do we go?" Carlos cried out, in desperation. It seemed as if there was nowhere to go, no escape from this smoking hole, with its now hellishly flashing lights and shooting flames.

Slasher turned his head to view the confused crowd again; there was a steady stream of people moving towards the exits, making definite progress in spite of all the jostling and confusion. He turned back to face Carlos, smiling. "Why not take our chances with them?" Slasher said, jerking his thumb at the bustling crowd. "Our people!" he crowed.

Carlos looked over at the sea of humanity that was surging slowly but steadily towards the doorways. "Why not?" he thought to himself... after all, they were all in the same boat; they just wanted out of the place. If they could mix in with the crowd, he and David might be able to make it outside, where he would have a much better chance of escaping... to face a very uncertain future. But he had made up his mind now... he was in this game up to his neck, this game of life... he had a stake in it now.

Carlos gave his anxious friend a worried look. "I don't know... this stage is kinda' high, man," he said, in an irritated tone of voice.

David looked at his friend in amazement; what a time to pull his comical deadpan act! "Look man, just follow me... if you want to live!" The singer glared hard at Carlos for a second; then, still holding his pistol at his side, he whirled around and started to run. As Carlos watched in respectful admiration, Slasher spread his arms wide and jumped off the stage, into the melee below. "My people!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, as he fell from view.

The fearful thought of losing the company of Slasher, his best friend and protector, suddenly gripped Carlos hard; it was now or never, he realized. And what better way to go, than with a huge crowd of people who had paid money to come see him, because they liked him, or liked his music, or whatever. It didn't matter anymore; he was a part of them now. He had a stake in this unpredictable, sometimes volatile game of life, and from now on he would act accordingly... more respectfully, more responsibly. It was good to have a stake in something.

Carlos began to run, towards the same place on the stage where Slasher had jumped off. Coming to the edge, he stopped and hesitated for a brief second, standing there indecisively.

"C'mon!!" Slasher yelled, impatiently; he was still standing at the spot where he had unceremoniously landed, waiting for Carlos to join him.

Carlos took one quick, final look around him. Slasher was right about Mitch and Billy; they would not be harmed, and would be allowed to safely exit the smoking building. It was Carlos whom the assassins wanted -- nobody else would be hurt. There was simply no reason to hurt anybody else -- nobody was paying for it.

Taking a deep breath, Carlos gathered himself and leapt off the stage, landing hard in an undignified heap. Quickly springing up, he gave a nod of his head to his anxious friend; then they both turned and began making their way towards the open doorways that beckoned to them in the distance, going unrecognized among the preoccupied, departing crowd.

As they neared the exits, Carlos turned to David, giving him as brave a grin as he could muster. "Think anybody will give us a ride?" he asked hopefully.

Slasher stopped in his tracks, turning to face his musical partner. "Are you serious?" he asked, incredulously. "Did you hear that applause, you idiot?"

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Copyright 2006, 2021 by Charles Adrian Trevino.