Black Mad Wheel. Josh Malerman

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СКАЧАТЬ means that we believe the frequency somehow … robbed our most powerful defense weapon of its … power.”

      “How do you know—” Philip begins.

      “And there’s more,” Mull says.

      “Oh, I bet there’s more,” Duane says.

      Mull breathes deep.

      “Once the alarm was sounded, the notification that the warhead had been sterilized, an MP drew his gun and quickly discovered it, too, had been rendered useless.”

      Philip imagines an entire army with impotent weapons. How different they would look.

      “So,” Mull continues, an ear on the muffled voices from the speakers, “a matter of national security indeed. A weapon like that could make us all … the whole country … vulnerable.”

      “Listen,” Larry says. “We may have served, but we were only in the band.”

      “That’s what makes you gentlemen ideal.”

      Some silence. Big thinking.

      “And it’s up to us to find out where it is?” Duane asks, but still far from committing. Philip is surprised his drummer hasn’t walked out the door. All this feels like the top of a slide. A return to the army, the life they’ve left behind, is waiting for them at the bottom.

      “Yes,” Mull says. “But, of course, there’s a bigger question than where.”

      “What?” Ross asks.

       “Who.”

      “Hey,” Duane says, having finally heard enough.

      Mull removes earplugs from his jacket pocket. He places them firmly in his ears.

      “I’m sorry, gentlemen. The sound is about to begin and I can’t stomach hearing it another time. Please forgive me in advance.”

      “What?” Philip asks.

      Mull adjusts his earplugs.

      “Hang on a minute,” Duane says, holding out a black palm toward Mull. “How bad can it be?”

      Philip looks to Ross as Ross falls to his knees by the playback speaker.

      “Ross?”

      He looks back to Mull, sees the military man has adopted a new expression, one of study.

      Philip throws up.

      He hardly felt it coming and he looks to his lap, sees the bronze sheen of booze. He grips the soft arms of the control room chair.

      The sound, Philip understands, has begun.

      But does he hear it?

      He feels sick. Drunk sick. Worse. Stronger. Like his skin is now made of leather. He’s sweating. Colors, gray and black, snake in his belly. He’s bringing a hand to his forehead.

      The others are covering their ears. Larry looks like he’s been hurt.

      Philip opens his mouth to say something and saliva pours from his lips. Feels like he’s going to vomit again. Larry gets up to leave the control room but can’t bring his hands from his ears long enough to open the door. He wobbles, falls against the wall for support. Vertigo.

      Duane is on his side on the ground.

      Mull leans back in the engineer’s chair, patient, with folded hands. His eyes reveal that he knows exactly what the Danes are experiencing. He’s experienced it himself.

      The inimitable sensation of fingertips in Philip’s ears. He turns fast. Nobody there.

      Mull smiles without mirth. Nods.

      What do you think it is? he seems to ask. What is it, Philip?

      Philip is shaking his head no.

       I don’t know. I don’t understand. It’s not a sound. It’s a feeling.

       But it is a sound. Listen.

      Philip strains for it … an ear to the speakers …

      … there is a sound.

      It’s more than one note, Philip thinks, staring Mull in the eye. A chord.

      He’s trying to raise his fingers to play the chord on an unseen piano before him. But he can barely move, barely lift his arm.

      The sound is more of a flood than a reverberation. More like something coming toward him than a song. As if the air it travels upon is scorched, rendered black, leaving a trail as wide as the studio, and maybe the entire city beyond the studio walls.

      Larry falls to his knees by the front door. Ross rolls to his side on the carpeted floor of Wonderland.

      Are they speaking? The other Danes? Are they telling Mull to turn it off?

      From the ground, Ross reaches for the control panel.

      Mull watches all of this. Silent. Patient.

      Philip throws up again.

      Duane rolls onto his belly. Ross’s fingers are contorted, arthritic bones testing the flesh of his hands …

      Philip hears a chord, three successive half steps played at once, as if someone has flattened their hand upon a piano. He’s done it himself, drunk, playing for girls, trying to make them laugh; a flat hand was funnier than a melody; but it’s a mean sound, the three notes no superstitious musician will play at once.

      Philip tries to say that, tries to open his mouth. Then—

      The sound stops.

      And for a beat there is only the silence of men trying to process what they’ve endured.

      The vertigo has passed. The sickness is gone.

      “Jesus Christ,” Larry says, getting again to his feet. “No way. I’m out.”

      Mull nods. He’s expected this response.

      Ross brings the wastebasket close like he’s going to puke. He gags instead.

      Duane is standing unsteadily in the center of the room.

      “What was that?” he asks, out of breath.

      Mull looks to Philip.

      “Private Tonka said it’s a chord. Did you all hear it that way?”

      Philip is shaking his head no.

      “I didn’t say that.”

      Mull smiles coldly.

      “Sure СКАЧАТЬ