The music really has stopped.
The crowd noise really has died because every person in our vicinity is completely frozen. A thousand statues, arms in the air, or mouths open to sing, or about to take a sip of a teetering drink, locked in place.
It’s eerie.
Terrifying.
Then the sharp shock of the mic crackles across the uncanny space, assaulting us with Jon’s, “What the fuck, man, did you just kiss your cousin?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
GOOD AUGUST
RUNAWAY
What the fuck?
What the actual fuck?
Everything has stopped in time, all except me and August and the band, and he’s still got his hand on my hip, but the other drops from my cheek as he takes the scene in.
Statues all around us, a thousand people still in the dim lights of Koko. “What’s happening?” I whisper. Because August will know. He knows all the things.
But he doesn’t answer, only lifts his worried eyes back to mine for a fraction of a second before a massive bang cracks the room apart. A gunshot! There’s a flash of sparks from one of the amps. I hit the floor, August’s arms around me, pushing me down.
Hot, claustrophobic, he shoves me through the line of people in front of us, crushed plastic cups skidding this way and that, making an enormous noise in the empty theatre. I can hear the band, Richie yelling at Jon to move, Jon yelling my name, Shashi and Amber in the background.
August isn’t slowing, blind panic pumping confusing adrenaline through my every nerve. It’s so dark down here. How can he know where he’s going?
But maybe he doesn’t know, because when we hit the barrier in front of the stage, he pauses, turning to me with his finger over his lips, like he needs to remind me to keep quiet when there’s a gunman on the loose. More than one gunman?
Slowly, he stretches up, looking for them. I do the same, peering towards the balconies, keeping as low as I can, looking over the shoulders of those unmoving in front of us.
A flash catches my eye from the balcony, light reflecting off… sunglasses? I barely have a second to take the shooter in before the barrel of his long gun shifts, pointing directly at my head. The air turns thick, an impenetrable wall holding me in place, pressing in on all sides. A shot rings out, there’s a bruising snap on my shoulder, and I’m falling, tripping over a hundred feet and legs, the crunch and crackle of litter all around.
August’s hands come around me, cradling my head as we fall. He lands on top of me, his leg and body flinching in a way I know it hurt him to catch me, but he doesn’t make a sound. He scrambles on top of me, scanning the surrounding dark.
“August!” A sound crashes on the other side of the barrier. Jon’s hands are on the metal grate. “Get up. Come on!”
We scramble to our feet, and five of the frozen people in our near vicinity go tumbling backwards when August stumbles. I vaguely catch it—Jon’s hands on him, shoving him away from me. But Jon’s got a hold of my wrists, pulling me. “Hurry. He’s on the stairs. He’s coming!”
The reassuring press of August’s hands pushes me on, and we’re climbing together, over the barrier, falling together. Jon’s wrenching me up, leading me around the side of the stage.
“August!” I call back.
“Run,” he hisses. I can’t see him, can barely process a thing, but knowing he’s behind me gives me the wherewithal to move one foot in front of the other, around the stage, up the stairs, and through a door Richie’s holding ajar for us. He widens it just enough for us to squeeze through, then slams and locks it, sending us into pitch black.
He’s off down the hall, his footsteps clapping against the narrow black walls. Jon’s gripping my hand so hard it hurts, yanking me after him, but I pull up, searching for August in the dark.
“Are you insane?” Jon hisses. “We’re going to die.”
“I’m here,” says August. Somehow his hand slips across my stomach, and relief takes me so hard I feel it prickle behind my eyes.
A loud crack fills the small space, shooting a hole through the door, the bullet so close to my ear I hear it whizz past.
“Fuck!” Jon cries out. He drops my hand and runs, which is only fair. I bolt after him, grabbing August’s hand as we go, running blindly down the hall, on and on, up the endless path until finally the green glow of an exit sign comes into view.
Jon’s there first, smashing through the door. Frigid air hits us, mingled with the smell of diesel. The van’s door is wide open, pulled up to the exit, and we all tumble in, falling onto the floor. Amber slams it behind us as Tico smashes a foot down on the accelerator. I’m thrown into a messy sandwich between Jon and August, unable to extricate myself as we slip around one corner, then another, and straight into Camden traffic.
