#dbs collection

"Signs Signs, Everywhere there's signs

Fucking up the scenery, Breaking my mind

Do this, don't do that

Can't you read the sign?

And the sign says, "Anybody caught trespassing will be shot on sight."

So I jumped the fence, and I yelled at the house, Hey! What gives you the right?"

Paul’s favorite music shop sat just a couple blocks away from Max’s video store on the outskirts of the Boardwalk. There it had sat for over thirty years, updating its inventory every so often, but the building itself was the same. The store front was a dingy brick with a large front window showcasing the new albums and some of the new Compact Discs that were becoming popular. A raggedy green canopy hung over the door, and the store sign was chipped and sun-faded.

The foot traffic out that way was minimal, so the only people coming into the store were the people who wanted to be there. Most of Dandridge’s Music’s clientele were stoners, wannabe rockers, the occasional herd of lost teenagers, and Paul. Over the years, Paul had probably spent a hundred thousand dollars at that place–mostly with cash stolen from victims. 

The owner, Thomas Dandridge, had run the shop since the beginning. Hell, he’d been around so long that Paul used to go when he was human. Paul was certain that Mr. D knew there was something up with him, but he never made any mention of how Paul never seemed to look any older. 

There’d been a couple of years, right after Paul had turned, that he didn’t dare to come buy for fear of being recognized. David and Max were always so insistent that the boys did not go anywhere they could be identified to keep the Pack safe from threats. Paul begrudgingly listened to them for a while, but the only other music shop in Santa Carla sucked and didn’t even have any of the good music–all they carried was new pop vinyls and used gospel and blues cassettes.

So, one night, when all the boys split up, and David was busy with a date he didn't plan on immediately eating. Paul snuck off to visit the shop again just to see what new stuff Mr. D had in stock. He’d never forget the look on Mr. D’s face when he walked through that door–the middle-aged man’s eyebrows had shot through the roof, and he’d cracked a huge grin. He’d been relieved to see Paul.

After the initial shock of Paul walking his way out of a missing poster with no explanation, things had gone back to normal. If the store wasn’t too busy, Paul would chat about music or new movies with him while they smoked together. Mr. D was always chill about customers smoking in the shop, just so long as they stayed away from anything valuable. 

Sometimes, Paul would stay a few hours until Mr. D reluctantly kicked Paul out so he could close up shop. It was a nice little routine of theirs, and Paul would make sure to turn up about once every month with a handful of wadded-up bills in tow to blow on a couple of new records or some cheap rock cassettes. 

That’s why Paul figured there were some things David and the others didn’t need to know. He’d only visit the music store when he was absolutely sure that the others wouldn’t or couldn’t follow him. He shared everything with them, yet a guy had to keep some secrets to himself or risk going crazy.

Tonight, Paul was on the hunt for some new cassettes. Marko had accidentally knocked over a box of Paul’s into a fire that Dwayne had built in the fountain and hadn’t noticed soon enough to stop them from melting into a brick of plastic and ash. Most of his Poison and Def Leppard needed to be replaced, and Paul was also looking for some Giuffria and stuff from some new bands, Cinderella and Britny Fox . 

The bell above the door of the shop rang as Paul entered. He glanced at the counter; Mr. D wasn’t there, so he went to the back and started scanning the large wall of tapes that covered the back wall. Grabbing a couple, he started flipping through some 45s in a cardboard box marked “bargain.” 

Something felt off. The crackly speakers mounted on the walls weren’t blasting the local rock station, and the place smelled less of weed and more like bleach. Paul frowned but shrugged it off. Hey, maybe Mrs. D had finally brought the hammer down and forced her husband to actually clean the place beyond having his employees do the occasional sweeping. Not that the place was ever dirty, per se, but an obsession with getting all the dust off the top of the shelves was never a priority.

The box mostly held Elvis and Johnny Cash singles, so he stopped looking and turned his attention to examining one of those CD players that Mr. D kept telling him about. Paul was considering getting one of those eventually, but not now; the players were like a hundred bucks, and the discs that played in them were like twenty bucks a piece. 

Yeah, Paul could have stolen them, but he respected Mr. D probably more than Max. Scratch that, definitely more than Max. Paul would have to save up and buy one at some point. Unfortunately, most of the tourists Paul had for dinner didn’t have a ton of cash on them by the end of the night when Paul got to them. 

Someone tapped Paul on the shoulder. He turned around, confused. 

A man in his early thirties wearing a polo shirt and khakis. He looked a bit like Mr. D, though he had more of his mother in him. Paul had never personally met Mrs. D, yet Mr. D had shown him photos of her and–Paul looked the man in front of him up and down–his disappointment. Although, those were much younger photos of the man scowling at him.

“Hello, I’m speaking to you,” Mr. D’s son said.

Mr. D had mentioned his son a few times, but from what Paul had gleaned, the son–Lennon, if Paul remembered correctly (named after the Beetle)–had run off in his early twenties and hadn’t spoken to his family in years. He couldn’t imagine why the hell the kid had come crawling back. On second thought, it probably had something to do with needing money.

“Cool,” Paul said, irritated. “And I’m unfortunately listening to you, man.”

Lennon scowled harder. His face was starting to turn a lovely reddish shade as the blood rushed to the surface of his skin.

“You need to leave,” Lennon said.

Paul crossed his arms, standing his ground. “Why? I'm a paying customer. I've been coming here forever.”

Lennon snorted. “I'm sure you were. My father let all your type in. I'm trying to have a little classier customers.”

Paul cocked his head, confused at what gave this guy the nerve. He'd have to talk to Mr. D. He'd never let his son treat anyone like this, let alone his regulars.

“I'm not leaving, dude,” Paul said. 

Lennon huffed. “Can't you read the sign?”

He pointed behind him towards the counter. Paul craned his neck over the guy's shoulder. Sure enough, there was a sign over the register that read, “WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE FOR ANY REASON” in big fucking letters. Typed. Paul wanted to shove it down his throat.

Paul’s blood boiled. “Why the Hell have I been kicked out? What the fuck did I do to you?”

Lennon crossed his arms smugly. “I mean, look at you. You reek of trouble,” he turned up his nose. “And a few other things.”

A growl rose in the back of Paul's throat. He was tempted to rip this dumbass’s neck out, but–1. There was another guy in the store, quietly messing with a set of headphones and a Walkman. 2. Paul didn't want to ruin Mr. D’s floors. Oh yeah, and this asshole was his son or something.

“Look,” Paul said, trying to cool his bloodlust. “Just let me pay for my shit, and I'll come in a couple of weeks when your Dad’s back and see what he says about this.”

He put his hands in front of him, showing cassettes weren't shoved in his pocket. Lennon didn't seem to care and considered Paul's actions a threat. The pompous idiot puffed out his chest and continued to point at his stupid sign.

“You are trespassing on MY property,” Lennon scoffed. “And if you refuse to leave it I will call the police.”

Paul reared. “If I recall correctly, this is Mr. Dandridge’s store, not yours. ” 

Paul made himself bigger, mimicking Lennon and towering over the overconfident thirty-something. Lennon cowered slightly but opened his stupid mouth again.

“It used to be,” Lennon huffed.

Paul shook his head. “Thomas'd never leave it in the hands of some arrogant prick like you.” 

Paul was done being pleasant. Who gave him the right to kick Paul out just because he “looked like trouble?” Fucker. How fucking dare he. Paul hadn't even hunted around the store out of respect for Thomas, keeping the boys from hunting there, too. 

Lennon blinked. “What did you say to me?” 

“I called you a prick. Your father’s a good friend of mine, and I want to talk to him before you call the fucking cops on me for trying to buy your fucking shit,” Paul snapped.

Lennon, who still wouldn't stop pointing at his damn sign, snorted again. “Like, I can check that. My Dad died of a heart attack two weeks ago; my Mother died a week after him of a broken one. So, yes. I am the owner of this store, and, as I've said multiple times now, you are trespassing.”

Paul felt like he'd taken a stake to the heart. How could Mr. D be gone? Yeah, humans were fragile shit and all that, but–

Paul ignored the pain swirling in his stomach. “Fine. Fuck it. You win. I'm leaving.”

Paul threw his hands up and marched over to the door. Ripping it open–and almost off its hinges–Paul paused in the doorway for a second.

“Hey! You didn't pay for those!” Lennon yelled, pointing at the merchandise Paul had just shoved in his pockets on the way out.

Paul shrugged. “Consolation fee. Hey, do you happen to have any family? Wife and kids?”

Lennon scrunched up his brow. “What? No?” His eyes widened. “Is that a threat?

“Maybe,” Paul said quietly.

###

That night, sometime after midnight, a fire started in Dandrige’s music. It was the talk of the town for weeks–a horrible tragedy. And right after the original owners had died, too. The weirdest thing about it was that the fire seemed to have been started by a blunt left in a box of old files in the back room (a horrible scandal for Lennon Dandridge, who had always seemed like a law-abiding citizen and more of an upstanding person than his parents), the owner himself had died in the world's oddest suicide: he'd cut his own throat with a plastic sign on the counter. At least, that’s what the wider town believed. Max talked to his contacts at city hall to make sure it stayed that way. The case was dropped by the cops before it ever really began.

Eventually, the news died down, and the whole thing became another forgotten headline with all of Santa Carla’s other happenings. There were a lot of awful stories that came out of Santa Carla. 

The same night as the fire, Paul acquired his first CD player and a modest collection of CDs. The first song he played on it was "The End” by the Doors for Mr. D. Thomas Danrige had always liked the older stuff. 

David, Marko, and Paul could never figure out why he didn’t leave the cave for a month after that night. 

Paul never told them. He shared everything with them, yet a guy had to keep some secrets to himself or risk going crazy.

"I wah-wah-wah-wah-wonder, why

Why, why, why, why, why she ran away

And I wonder a-where she will stay-ay

My little runaway, a-run, run, run, run, runaway"

The sand was warm under Billie’s feet. Bits of glass glittered in the moonlight, a slightly duller shimmer than the gently lapping waves of the Pacific Sea. The air smelled strongly of salt and carnival food on the boardwalk nearby. A cool undertone chilled the wind, making Billie glad for her coat. 

Her backpack sat at her feet, carrying all her worldly possessions: a change of clothes, two hundred fifty meticulously earned dollars, and some toiletries. That was all. Billie looked down at the piece of paper clenched in her fist—the stub of a bus ticket. All of it sat in an old canvas backpack, covered in patches that rested at her feet.

Despite the fear boiling in the pit of her stomach, Billie was also overjoyed. Excited. For the first time in her life, she had a chance at a future. She was three thousand miles from her former home and three thousand miles from her family. Her family had no way for them to find her, not amongst the hundreds of runaways and rejects that populated the city.

But there wasn’t time for Billie to rest on her laurels. The first step was to get a job. Even though it seemed the job market was pretty tight, there were plenty of hole-in-the-wall shops and carts that hocked goods—somewhere had to open up eventually.

Especially with all the missing people.

A rock settled in the bottom of Billie’s stomach. She could handle herself. Her mom had made her do all those self-defense classes as a kid. Billie had made sure to refresh on all that before she’d left. She also had a can of pepper spray in her coat pocket and a switchblade her brother had given her hidden in a pouch on the outside of her sleeve.

That’s why Billie was so far out here in the shadow of the towering columns below the pier. Shafts of light filtered through the gaps in the old boards. There weren’t many people this way; most of the bonfires were a good quarter mile back down the shoreline. Plus, she could disappear into the deep darkness behind her if anyone came around.

Right now, Billie was leaning against one of the pillars at the very edge, watching the water and resting her chin on her knees. Her short brown hair, the hair she chopped off in the gas station halfway from the east coast, fluttered in the breeze. She tugged absentmindedly at the sharp strands–her father would kill her if he saw what she did to it. He’d call her a boy-girl and make her shave the rest of it to shame her. Maybe Billie would get a tattoo once she had a job and was stable. Perhaps she’d do other people’s tattoos.

The possibility of getting back to her art would have to wait awhile. Billie was mostly an oil painter, but she was also very good with pastels and graphite pencils. Paintings of fantasy creatures of her own creation and distant planets still decorated the walls of her childhood room—unless her Dad had gotten to it and trashed all her stuff.

Something splashed in the distance, maybe a dolphin or a seal; Billie craned her neck to see if she could catch sight of what it was. The stars shone brightly, burning through a light sheen of fog, but there still wasn’t enough light to make out any details. 

Billie laid back, allowing the warm sand to swallow her up. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, sweet air filling her lungs. A sense of calm settled over her as a haze of fog rose off the water, crawling onto the beach and toward Billie. The water droplets were cool and felt like gentle hands caressing her skin. She hadn’t realized just how hot and sticky she felt until now.

Suddenly, flapping wings echoed across the beach, along with what sounded like laughter. Billie’s eyes popped open, and she bolted upright, looking around for the source of the sound. The beach was completely empty, a tundra of shimmering undulating sand.

Billie scooted backward further underneath the pier. She clutched her backpack to her chest and attempted to quiet her breathing. It was probably just some sort of bird, but the darkness seemed darker now that the sounds of the boardwalk were dying, and Billie was struck by the fact of how utterly alone and isolated she was. And birds didn’t laugh.

The seconds ticked by with no noises. Billie fumbled to get her knife out of the pocket in her coat. She flicked the switchblade open with a snik. Wrapping her fingers around the edge of the wooden column, peering out. Billie’s fingers shook as she continued to wait. 

Barking laughter filled the air, resounding off the bottom of the pier and surrounding Billie. The sound of wings returned with a vengeance, mixing with the laughter to create a cacophony of horror. Her eyes darted around, looking for its source and finding no answers. 

Billie’s lips trembled and her heart beat like pistons in an engine. She clenched the blade's handle with white knuckles, breath catching in her chest as iron bands of fear tightened around her lungs. Digging her heels into the sand, Billie got into a fighting stance and raised her blade to eye level.

A force that felt like a crowbar struck Billie in the back, sending her tumbling to the earth, rolling end over end. The area hit throbbed painfully as Billie lay in a tidepool, struggling to rise to her knees. She let out a wheeze, desperately trying to suck in the air that had been removed from her chest.

As she pulled herself to her elbows, Billie caught sight of a man out of the corner of her eye. Straightening up, the man disappeared as she turned her head to face her attacker. 

A sharp pain struck her in the lower stomach. Glancing down, Billie saw the hilt of her brother’s knife sticking out of the skin, a pool of red seeping into her t-shirt. She placed a shaking hand around the embedded blade and felt the warmth pouring out of the wound. 

Billie felt fingers–no claws–around the scuff of her collar, lifting her from the ground and flinging her out onto the wet sand near the waves. She landed on the back with a thud, another gasp escaping her lips. Her gaze fixated on the moon and stars above as she tried to catch her breath. 

The flapping sound stopped, changing to the shifting sound of boots on the gritty ground. Billie’s head fell to the earth as she turned over to look at her assailants. 

Four men were walking slowly towards her. Their faces were inhuman, with a heavy brow and glowing yellow irises that seemed to glow in the dark. The skin on their face was pulled taut, highlighting harsh cheekbones and thin, red lips revealing long fangs. 

They strolled toward Billie, not a care in the world, as if there wasn’t a girl bleeding out at their feet. Billie tried to scream, but blood bubbled out of her mouth and dripped down her face. 

“Don’t lose any of the good stuff, Mama,” one of the creatures sneered.

Billie tried to roll over and crawl the other way. This was her fresh start; she needed to live; she needed to prove her father wrong; she could make something of herself. 

A boot planted itself firmly into her back, driving the hilt completely into her stomach. Billie wailed in agony, the red-hot pain rushing through her veins. She clawed at the ground, desperately trying to pull herself away.

The same claws as before lifted Billie by the back of her jacket. The man turned her to face him, and she felt his icy breath against her face.

Icy described everything about the man. His hair was a spiky, dead white, and his skin was so pale it reflected the moonlight into Billie’s wide eyes. His face was emotionless save for a slight sneer that tinged his lips.

“P-please,” Billie choked, spitting blood.

David cocked his head and looked at the little runaway with electric blue eyes.

The last sound Billie heard was cruel laughter.