Chapter One

Columbus, KY: Friday, August 15, 6:51 p.m.

               In the far distance, way on the west side of the Mississippi River, Vic could see the sky bruising, the stain of a coming storm blotting out the evening’s setting sun. He muttered under his breath, wiping a layer of sweat from under his tangled, crimson-dyed hair, irritation mounting.

“Just my luck,” he grumbled.

“Maybe we should postpone until the storm passes. Some dangerous storms have come through this summer,” the skinny little guy beside him offered.

When they arrived at the outdoor concert venue, the scrawny guy introduced himself as Ted. Ted owned and operated the facility where they were to play tonight. Ted was a strange little dude. Long strings of brown hair crossed his bald pate, slipping over his forehead every time he bobbed his head. He wore a bright red T-shirt over faded jeans with The Kentucky Ravine embroidered on the pocket in big, fat letters.

“The Kentucky Ravine is an all-around extreme music venue,” he bragged as he showed them around the space. Ase, their drummer, rolled his heavily mascaraed eyes and flicked his fingers in the talk, talk, talk motion behind Ted’s back. Clearly, this corn cob never visited LA, where the real music venues were located.

Well, at least this place stood up modest market stalls to sell their shirts, plastic porta-potties, a concession stand, and most importantly, a bar. A wide-open stage backed up to a dope river view, and the afternoon’s glow on the water’s surface earlier today was awesome. Even now with the clouds bringing an early twilight, the Mississippi, lined with giant, long green levees in this stretch, was magnificent. But Vic wasn’t here to sightsee.

His fingers drummed against the side of his van as he stared at the storm. He didn’t need this right now. Vic didn’t want to deal with the wind, rain, or whatever the hell was about to come tearing through. He just wanted to get through the show, grab a beer, and then head out with the farm girl they had met earlier at the dinky town diner.

Vic ignored the weather. Let the locals like Ted worry about it. He’d promised himself that tonight he was going to enjoy himself. He wasn’t about to let some storm ruin his shot at a good time with the one hot girl he’d met since they started this tour. Vic was going to score. He was sure of it.

Ase and Neil were grumbling in the background. The two shared his disdain for the cycle of small towns, hot, miserable days, and endless talk about the weather. They’d been stuck in the Midwest too long.

After disaster consumed the West Coast, they knew it would be a long dry stretch before their band —BROKEN HEADS! — would get to open again in LA or anywhere in California. It'd been pure luck that they’d been playing in Chicago when disaster struck the West Coast; they’d missed everything. Indo Fleming, their manager and agent, wasn’t so lucky. He was wiped out with the rest of LA, leaving the guys looking for new representation.

Three months later, the new manager they snagged—some kid out of Wicker Park—was all about country music, not rock. So here they were, slogging through gig after gig in the heartland, with no end in sight. California felt like a lifetime away.

He pushed off the side of their van and ran a hand through his long hair. Time to make music. He headed for the stage, sliding out of the spiked leather jacket covering his band shirt and hiking up his ripped jeans. Rousing up his partners, he ran on stage, with a big smile, shouting out hellos to the crowd of a few thousand. The band’s studded boots stomped the boards as they took their places. The sooner they started, the sooner they’d be done.

Amplifiers and speakers boomed into the night as Ase dropped behind the drums and Vic and Neil grabbed their guitars. Their newest sound man, Rolo from South Chicago, who’d only been with them this summer, was already behind the mixing desk, hammering through recordings of previous concerts to get the crowd in the mood.

Sudden feedback screeched. Vic glared at Rolo, and with a dufus grin, the mixer started up the first set. Hicks. Vic hated the Midwest.

Vic started the first song without missing a beat, belting out tunes like he was standing on stage at The Hollywood Bowl. The crowd went wild, stamping feet, singing and chanting along, and waving arms excitedly.

Ted ignored the concert and continued to watch the storm’s approach. He fidgeted, wondering if he should do something now or wait until the storm arrived. The risk of customer complaints if he interrupted the concert for nothing stayed his hand. Besides, the bar was doing great business, and that’s where he made the most of his profits.

The base of the storm was a low, ominous, inky blackness, while the upper clouds spiraled upwards like a monstrous skyscraper of vapor. The top of the supercell was almost an anvil shape, a violent, turbulent cap that glowed faintly with flashes of lightning dancing within.

Ted had seen his share of storms over the years, but this was next level. The atmosphere was feeling electric, and he glanced back at the stage, debating whether it was the storm or the concert he was feeling. Gusts of wind picked up, raking his clothes, and the air felt heavy, saturated with moisture.

He guessed the storm was still miles away, but took it seriously when the thunder rolled in fifteen minutes later with a low, deep growl. Backing up a few steps, he turned, trying to decide where to start. He didn’t have a basement or shelter on the property. The best bet was for people to get to their cars. But first, he’d have to interrupt the concert.

The sky flickered with lightning, and the storm sent a jagged streak of bright light cutting through the dark western sky.

Towering clouds churned, twisting and rising with incredible power.

 The wind howled, stinging his face, and Ted squinted against the bite of something cold in the air. Ice or sleet. He held his hand out, feeling the sharp, frozen points prickle his palm before the gusts snatched them away.

His boots slapped against the pavement as he trotted through the crowd, fear buzzing in his veins. The storm was closing in fast. He ran up the stage steps, heading to Rolo at the mixing table. The guy was still working, oblivious to the storm behind them. His fingers danced over the controls as the band played on, ignorant of the madness unfolding around them.

Vic saw Ted reach the stage, but he barely acknowledged the venue owner, dismissing him as he turned back to the crowd, whooping his way into the next song. The lights pulsed, the music thumped, but the sky behind them had gone so black it felt unreal—like a painted canvas, a backdrop in some twisted theater. Lightning crackled, the bolts too close now, lighting up the sky in flashes of icy fire.

Ted scanned the crowd, his chest tightening. What the hell were they doing? Why wasn’t anyone running? The storm was coming in fast. The wind whipped dust and ice across the lot, making it difficult to see. Yet people kept dancing and cheering like the storm was another part of the show. A bizarre thought hit him—do they think this is pyrotechnics? Were they too drunk or too caught up in the music to notice what was coming?

 “Rolo!” Ted shouted, his voice barely carrying over the storm and the singing crowd. “We need to stop this! There’s a storm. We need to get people to safety!”

Not understanding a word, Rolo grinned and nodded, his head bobbing to the beat.

A bolt of lightning cracked across the sky, blinding in its brilliance, searing through the dark clouds like a jagged knife. For a split second, everything was bathed in white fire—every face, every movement captured in the intense flash. The thunder that followed roared, a sound so deep and violent it felt like the earth itself was being torn apart. The crowd exclaimed and recoiled, thunder ripping into their bones. A booming crack rattled Vic’s teeth, making his skull hum with the force of it.

When he looked up, his stomach dropped. The sky had become a swirling maelstrom, like something from a Nordic painting. The storm descended on the concert arena with a violence that took his breath away. Black clouds twisted and churned. A dark, swirling vortex formed above them like a portal to hell.

The wind increased then, howling across the Mississippi River with a fury. It tore through the venue like a war in motion, shredding the temporary stalls set up along the perimeter. Flags crackled and twisted violently, their colors fading into a blur as they ripped from their poles. The cables strung across the venue—those that held lights and sound equipment—snapped like thread, whipping through the air like lashings from a giant’s hand.

Vic’s heart pounded as the wind screeched through the concession stand, raking the entire structure from its foundation. Walls buckled and groaned under the pressure before collapsing inward, the roof crumpling like paper as it fell.

He couldn’t see Ted anymore. The man had either run off or been blown from the stage. A cascade of trash flew past him, and Vic ducked, covering his face. The wind tore through the crowd, pushing people to the ground as the arena fell apart at the seams.

The storm was deafening. A screaming, relentless power drowning out everything.

Another jagged bolt of light shot from the sky, a brilliant, incandescent streak of pure energy. With a deafening crack, it slammed into the drum kit, lighting Ase in a blinding halo of electric fire. The explosion sent a shockwave rippling through the stage. The air crackled around them. Ase’s lanky body jerked as the blast of millions of volts held him in place, his hands twitching, sparks flying. Dead in an instant, he never knew what hit him.

Neil, his long hair wild and standing straight up, was flung through the air and impaled on top of one of the stall poles, the aluminum driven clear through him before he crashed to the ground in a tangled heap. His body hit the dirt with a thud, leaving a trail of dust swirling around him, his blood running over the hardpan in a wet pool.

Vic’s eyes widened in disbelief as the blast threw him sideways off the stage. His narrow face etched with surprise, comical amid the mayhem. He hit the ground hard, the air knocked out of him, and his mind scrambled to make sense of what had happened.

The world spun for a second. Then, instinct took over. Terrified and disoriented, Vic scrambled to his feet, eyes wild as the chaos unfolded around him. The storm still howled, a downpour sweeping through, but his feet were already moving. His legs carried him, as if on their own, toward the nearest safe haven—a port-a-potty.

He flung himself inside, banging the door behind him, the tiny restroom rattling with the violence of the storm outside. His heart was pounding in his ears, and his breath came in ragged gasps, but for a moment, everything was muffled.

Then, the door yanked open, and Vic jerked back, startled. A blond woman stood there, panic in her eyes, clutching a small blond child to her chest. The wind tore at them. Her face twisted with fear, her eyes begging for shelter. Time slowed for a heartbeat, and then something cold and primal took over. Blindly, Vic jerked the door back shut without feeling a damn thing, the lock clicking into place.

He didn’t look at the door. He stayed still, pressing his back against the thin plastic wall, squatting over the hole in the board. The screams and horror outside were muffled, but not enough to drown out the deafening pounding in his chest.

The world shifted in an instant. One moment, Vic huddled in the dark, trembling inside the cramped walls of the port-a-potty; the next, the storm’s furious grip tore the ground from beneath him, and the flimsy plastic walls were weightless. The wind howled, shrieking like a living thing as it yanked the structure from its base.

Up he shot, higher and higher, the wind screaming around him, rattling the box like a toy in a child’s hands. Each second was a brutal blow, battering his body. His ears rang with the howling wind, and he exhaled in short, shallow gulps as the air grew thinner and colder with every passing moment.

His clothes froze against his skin, a thin layer of ice creeping over every surface, making it feel as though he were locked in a tomb. The wind had no mercy. The storm played with him, hauling him thousands of feet into the atmosphere, where time and space blurred into a dizzying spiral.

He didn’t know how high he’d been carried, or sense how long he had flown. His mind struggled to keep up, but the pain and cold were all-consuming.

And then, without warning, everything shifted again. Once so powerful, the wind released him. The port-a-potty plummeted, free-falling through the sky with terrifying speed. Vic’s stomach lurched, the fall endless.

His heart pounded. The echoing twang of a discordant note rang in his ears as the world became a blur of motion, too fast and too jumbled to process. His mind screamed for anything to stop the fall, but there was nothing. No ground to grip, no air to hold.

For the Broken Heads, the concert was over forever.