Theatre Obsessed

Not the Strat he would forever be known as, but a younger Strat, a kinder Strat. The Strat he would become just a seed inside of him that needed a blazing inferno to grow.

His pants stick to his legs like a second skin, and he’s already forgone his shirt in the heat, tucked it into his waistband instead of wearing it. He downs the rest of his mostly-ethanol drink and throws the mug against the wall, watching the shards scatter over his bandmates boots.

His bandmate grumbles as Strat laughs at the mess.

“Don’t worry about it, Champ,” Strat laughs, leaning in closer to his bandmate, “I would never hurt you.” He slings an arm across Champ’s shoulder which is immediately thrown off.

“Let’s just get onstage,” His bandmate motions to where the previous band had finished playing. Strat laughs again and starts walking to the stage. The ground rumbles under his feet and he stumbles, laughing again.

His bandmates make it to the stage before him, and then the ceiling caves in. The last thing Strat remembers is the trail of ceramic shards left by his bandmates shoes on the group.

-

There’s a ringing in his ears.

Strat coughs as light appears from above and hands grab his shoulders, pulling and tugging with all their might. He kicks out, trying to get rid of the weight that’s crushing him against the tunnel floor. Something gives and suddenly he’s sprawled across a body, coughing his lungs out as the dust settles around him.

There’s an unfamiliar, chemical taste on his tongue that’s burning his throat.

Strat pulls himself up, still coughing, using the rubble next to him as a crutch. The body under him groans and more hands appear, pulling the two of them farther away from the rubble. Something dabs at Strat’s temple and he flinches away.

The ringing in his ears fades. The noise of the scene, crying, screaming, muttering, all rushes into his ears and he fights the urge to vomit. Instead, he focuses on the hands and the people around him, helping him.

“Careful,” The hands plop him down against the far wall, “You were under the rubble,” Strat looks to where the stage used to be, finding rubble, bodies, movements as people try to pull others out from under the concrete, and blood, so much blood, staining the ground, running and mixing with the moisture in the air.

He stares down at his own stained hands as someone tries to keep him from bleeding from a head wound. A small part of him wants them to leave, to let him bleed out.

There’s so much blood.

He coughs again as the person ties a piece of material around his head, tightly.

“What’s your name?” Strat finds himself asking, looking up at the person.

“Zahara,” The black woman smiles, plopping herself down next to him, “The guy who pulled you out is LeDoux.” She motions to the man on his other side.

Strat nods to the muscled man. The man nods back.

“What happened?” Strat refocuses his eyes on the rubble. The crying is louder now, along with the muttering. Somewhere far away, a girl is screaming.

“The ceiling came down,” LeDoux answers, “Crushed the stage and anyone on the dance floor. It’s a miracle you survived.”

Strat lets out a low noise, looking back at the rubble. The noise around the three grows louder until there’s a clear, visceral scream.

“We’re TRAPPED!” The voice shrieks and a female body rounds the corner, tears streaming down her face, followed by a man, “We’re fucking trapped down here,” She shrieks again. The man grabs her before she can start running again.

Panic sets into the crowd and Strat clutches his head as the noise gets louder. The woman, now sobbing, is steered in the direction of the only wall space free, next to Zahara. She’s muttering and clutching the man like a lifeline and it bothers Strat.

Everything is bothering Strat. The noise, the blood on his hands, the pounding in his head, the smell in the air, the noise the chemical taste on his tongue, the noise!

“Everyone SHUT UP!” Strat rushes to his feet, standing so he can face most of the people still alive in the tunnel, “Just shut up for two seconds!” His head hurts as he screams but the noise dies down almost instantly.

He looks at the woman leaning against the wall next to Zahara, “What’s your name?”

“Valkyrie,” She says in a small voice.

“Why were you screaming?”

“We have no way out. We’re trapped down here.”

“The tunnels lead out don’t they?” Zahara cuts in.

“No,” The man next to Valkyrie shakes his head. Strat notices that his leg is bleeding badly, “The tunnels on this side are all dead ends used to house old cars. We’ve got no way out.”

“We are trapped,” Someone else mutters.

“We’re all gonna die,” The noise starts up again.

“SHUT UP!” Strat clutches his head before screaming, “JUST SHUT UP! No one is dying.” He looks at everyone, there’s maybe 20 people and most of them are badly hurt. And now they’re looking at him like he has the answers, all because he decided to speak up. Shit. “What we need to do is take care of each other,” He looks at the terrified, tear-streaked faces, “Help each other, and then we dig our way out. ” He glances back to the rubble for a second.

“What about the gas?” A voice asks. The man next to Valkyrie motions to a section next to the rubble.

“What?” Strat turns and looks where he’s pointing. As he moves his head, his headache worsens. There’s an exposed pipe, split open from the ceiling falling down, and an orange-colored gas is seeping out of it.

He only notices the letters FAL on the side of the pipe before he’s clutching his head in pain.

“You heard him!” Zahara says, grabbing him and setting him back down, “Start helping people! Go do shit!”

“Argh,” Strat can’t think straight through the pounding headache. Zahara tightens her grip on his arm.

“It’s gonna hurt for a little while longer, sweetie,” Zahara tells him before collapsing back into her original position.

“Strat,” Strat says, “My name is Strat.”

“Strat,” LeDoux pats his arm, “Nice name.” Strat nods back, giving LeDoux a small smile in the process.

Then, his headache gets unbearable. His body curves inward as he clutches his head, the pounding consuming his thoughts. Hands pat his back comfortingly from both sides as he curls.

“You have a concussion,” Zahara’s hands move to his head, feeling his temples.

“No shit,” Strat forces out. LeDoux laughs. It’s the last thing Strat hears before black overtakes his senses again.

-

Strat opens his eyes to find nothing has changed.

“Good, you’re awake,” Zahara passes him a cup filled with clear liquid. Strat takes a drink and realizes it’s water, not alcohol like he was secretly hoping.

“How long?” Strat forces himself to his feet, which turns out to be a terrible idea when his stomach protests and its contents end up splashing against the wall of the tunnel, right next to LeDoux. The man gives Strat a glare and Strat gives him an apologetic look. LeDoux’s eyes soften.

“Just a few hours,” Zahara says, passing Strat what’s left of his shirt so he can wipe his mouth.

Strat looks around to find most people are either sleeping off whatever injuries they have or are tending to the wounded.

“I didn’t think they’d listen to me,” He says.

“They needed someone to tell them what to do,” LeDoux answers his unspoken question, “You took charge. That’s why they listened.”

Strat lets his words hang in the air, glancing towards the rubble to find some people already starting to move it.

“You need to stay off your feet,” Zahara says, moving Strat back down into a sitting position against the wall but away from his sick, “I’m concerned about the concussion.”

Strat laughs lowly but doesn’t say anything back. He doesn’t know what to say. Everything is so fucked in his head right now he doesn’t know how to process anything. And he wants to know why his legs aren’t hurting when he thinks they should be.

He looks down at his legs, set on answering one question. They’re scrapped to hell and back, but they’ve been cleaned somewhat and the bleeding is minimal. Thankfully.

Strat suddenly feels a longing for his guitar, which is probably buried under the rubble with his bandmates and the stage.

He shivers.

“Here,” Zahara hands him a leather jacket he recognizes instantly. It’s one of the jackets that was made for his band, The Lost. Ironic it survived just like him.

“Where did you get this?” Strat asks as he slings the black leather over his shoulder.

“Pulled it out from the rubble near where I found you,” LeDoux is the one that answers, shrugging “Figured it was yours.”

Strat nods and clings to the leather. It’s comforting in a way he didn’t think it would be.

“The Lost was your band right?” Zahara asks. Strat nods instead of answering, “Sorry.” She winces as she looks at the rubble, all the red running out of it.

“At least I made it out,” Strat says. He doesn’t see the point in mourning his bandmates, they were all runaways like himself, lost children in a broken world. The name of their band was literal.

LeDoux pats him on the shoulder.

Strat stands up and puts the jacket on fully, staring at the rubble pile. “I’m going to help,” He says before walking towards where others are moving the rubble. Zahara makes a squawking sound and follows him.

“You shouldn’t be moving around.” She insists as Strat bends down to pick up and move some of the stained rubble.

“Don’t care,” Is all Strat says in response. After a few seconds, he realizes that Zahara and LeDoux are helping right next to him. He gives Zahara a raised eyebrow.

She shrugs, “If I can’t stop you, I might as well join you.”

“Hey,” Valkyrie joins them, dragging the guy she’s with behind her, “This is Blake, by the way.”

“Hey,” Blake picks up a piece of the rubble and shifts it to the side. The people already working on the rubble, including a guy who can’t take his eyes off of Zahara’s arm muscles, smile at the group as they begin helping.

It takes a long time and 4 more people joining in the effort, but the group manages to make a significant dent in the rubble by the time they become tired. Strat, in particular, feels like shit, his arms aching as he moves to sit on one of the larger pieces of rubble they managed to move away. His eyes drift to the pipe in the corner, and the letters FAL. He doesn’t know what it means and it bothers him.

At least the gas coming out of the pipe isn’t orange anymore.

“Getting tired?” The guy who kept staring at Zahara asks.

“Yeah,” Strat nods and the guy sits down in front of him, “The concussion isn’t helping.”

“You’ve got a concussion?”

“Zahara tells me I do.”

“That’s Zahara, right?” The guy motions to her. Strat nods. “I’m Jagwire by the way.”

“Strat.”

They sit in silence until LeDoux comes over and sits next to Jagwire.

“LeDoux,” He nods at Jagwire.

“Jagwire.”

“Blake,” Blake plops himself down on the other side of Jagwire, “So, what’s the plan Strat?”

“I don’t have one.”

“You gotta,” LeDoux says, “Everyone’s looking at you for leadership.”

“I didn’t ask them to,” Strat defends.

“Yes, you did.” Strat gives him a look, “When you yelled at us to stop panicking and start helping people,” Jagwire explains, “You basically told us you were our leader.”

“I don’t want to be your leader.”

“Tough,” LeDoux says, “You are.”

Strat doesn’t answer him, choosing instead to look up at the mountain of rubble they still have to move in order to get out. He feels the weight of responsibility resting on his shoulders, the weight of everyone else hoping he has a solution to this nightmare.

He hates it.

In the dim light, he looks down at his own hands, once stained red with his own blood, now stained with whoever’s blood coated the pieces of rubble. The floor beneath his shoes was stained as well, and he’d decided to just ignore the crunch under his feet when he was moving the rubble.

“Let’s just get everyone out of here,” Strat says eventually, standing up. The boys stand with him, almost flanking him as he walks back to the rubble.

They all fan out to clear the rubble.

-

It takes a while, but eventually, they reach the other side of the rubble and make a hole big enough for everyone to get through. When Strat’s lungs hit non-chemical air they erupt in protest, forcing him into a coughing fit. Looking around, Strat sees LeDoux, Jagwire, Zahara, everyone in the tunnel coughing as well.

Something fucked up must have been in that chemical leak. Strat’s not too concerned though, the chemicals don’t seem to be killing them any faster than the rest of the world is.

The small group Strat has amassed helps each injured person through the hole in the rubble before they set off through the tunnels towards the surface.

“Jag, Doux, Blake,” Strat calls as the last person climbs through the hole, “Stay back.”

“What’s up?” Jagwire asks as the three boys come up to Strat.

“We should seal it back up,” Strat looks through the hole back at the red splattered walls. He doesn’t know why, but he needs it to be a tomb. He needs it closed and secret and private. He can’t explain it, he just needs.

“Then we will,” LeDoux doesn’t even question Strat, he just starts re-piling the rubble up to block the hole. The others follow suit and in a few minutes, it’s impossible to tell that there was a hole in the rubble at all.

Strat and the boys rejoin the others afterward, leaving the tomb where it is, buried deep in the tunnels below what becomes Obsidian.