Damnation Code (William Massa) - William Massa Page 0,56

and waited.

He didn’t have to wait for long.

The lights soon dimmed and the bar grew silent. Even the hushed whispers ceased. The energy had changed — an air of reverence and dark wonder now permeated the establishment.

The stage lit up in a furious blaze of moody lights that speared through the pub’s smoky darkness. Four tall, gaunt and long-haired figures stood revealed. The silence gave way to ecstatic howls.

The members of Ice God were decked out in leather trench coats and black pants complemented by motorcycle boots. Spiked gauntlets and belts encircled their wrists and waists. Each band member wore a rune around his neck on a string necklace. Corpse paint with black highlights covered their faces. They made Talon think of Goths on steroids, or a twisted version of KISS. But unlike the classic, playful ‘70s rock group, these sinister figures projected a worn, haunted quality and their blackened eyes glittered with contempt and hatred. Lost souls who had declared war against mainstream society.

Only item missing is the church-burning kit, Talon thought.

Talon scanned the stage. Still no sign of Rezok. The feverish anticipation in the pub was nearing its breaking point. Suddenly a raspy, grave-dark voice emanated from the darkness.

“Are you ready for the final winter?”

The question achieved its desired effect - the crowd went nuts. Rezok knew how to work up his flock, and they were eager for it. The power of the black-metal god could not be denied. As the band began to unleash the first volley of their sonic assault, the lights dimmed slightly in anticipation of the night’s main attraction. The guitars rose to a furious crescendo as Rezok stepped onto the stage.

One glance told Talon the reports had been true. Ice God’s lead singer didn’t have to wear corpse paint to create a vampiric countenance; his complete absence of pigment appeared to be natural. Rezok was an albino, his skin and long flowing hair a pure white color. Like all those afflicted with this chromosomal abnormality, he had a heightened sensitivity to light. Defying the myths that had sprung up around albinism, his eyes weren’t pink or red but a faded gray and burned with an intensity that electrified the room.

Talon remembered watching an interview where Rezok claimed that he buried his clothes before a performance so they would soak up the scent of the grave. The outlandish claims had elicited chuckles, but Talon wasn’t laughing right now. Something about experiencing Ice God’s lead singer up close made it impossible to ignore him. Rezok was a force to be reckoned with.

He brought up his mic and switched to Norwegian, barking another guttural greeting at his enraptured fans. Talon didn’t understand the words, but he could gauge their effect on the crowd - Rezok was rallying an army.

Fighting in the war on terror had given Talon a healthy respect for the power of misguided ideology. It didn’t matter whether it was a Jihadist preaching to a flock of extreme Islamists in some Saudi Arabian mosque or a Norwegian black-metal god addressing his followers in a Bergen dive.

The music kicked in. The shrieked vocals, demonic tempos and static-infused production built into a roar of angst, fury and loathing. Despite the noise and unfiltered aggression, Talon couldn’t deny the undeniable power and evil beauty of the band’s ferocious set.

Talon didn’t judge people by the music they listened to. Hell, he’d followed his share of crazy bands over the years. Theatrics came with the gig. The edgier the band, the greater the appeal. But black metal seemed to be all about the edge and the abyss that lurked beyond.

As Ice God powered through the first couple of songs, the throng erupted in a blaze of violent movement. Rezok’s leather-clad followers pumped their arms as if possessed. Elbows shot out wildly. Enthralled by the performance, no one cared who was hit or hurt during these drunken pub aerobics. Most of the fans welcomed the violent onslaught, cherishing each bruise and bloody nose as hard-earned, much-treasured battle scars.

One foolish fan tried to elbow Talon in the ribs.

Bad idea.

Talon anticipated the sly attack, sidestepped the blow and snatched the big man’s right hand. He twisted the limb and the fan let out a pain-filled grunt. They traded glances and Talon’s cold, hard stare made him back off.

You’re not as dumb as you look, Talon thought.

As the concert wore on, somehow the message got around not to mess with the American and the other moshing fans maintained a respectful distance.

Talon continued to