Hell’s Banquet

Strobe lights blink and flicker as the thudding music meshes with the thousands of beating hearts in the mosh pit.

Anatolia hugs herself, looking up through the chaotic noise, seeing knuckles shiny with sweat as they fist the air, bodies jumping with the tempo. It’s hot here in L.A. this time of year, but in this crowd, a coldness seeps into Anatolia’s bones, and she tries to move to the edge of the dance floor.

Someone grabs her, and she whirls.

“This rocks doesn’t it, Ana? This is Hell’s Ex Body Count!” It’s Dean, her best friend. Wiry with shoulder-length blond hair. He sticks his tongue out, a tattoo reading: DEATH there. “AHHH! Let’s go fucking mosh!”

He pulls her back into the pit, and the music becomes more violent.

“Dean, something’s wrong!” Anatolia yanks away as Dean fists the air.

“WHOOO!”

Limbs flail, smashing into other limbs.

An arm swings at Anatolia—she ducks, clutching her head. When she opens her eyes, a girl stares up at her, mouth agape as she sinks into the floor.

“Dean!”

She scrambles to her feet, but the tide of bodies sweeps her away. Someone crashes into Anatolia, knocking her to the wet floor. She veers back, but the floor sticks with her, keeping her glued there like a trapped fly.

“Dean, help!” Anatolia yells.

“Ana!”

He reaches for her, but a red tentacle burst through the ground, plucking him off his feet and slinging him into oblivion.

The speakers squeal.

“And for our next song, Hell’s Banquet!”

Death metal shatters Anatolia’s eardrums, and blood oozes from her ears.

More bodies join hers, sinking and sinking.

Anatolia screams out, her wails consumed by the pits of Hell.