Scandinavian Heartstrings, in Drop D.

Chapter 11.0 Back to Tampa

The medical hood had entered the lounge room of the Dethkopter sombrely, and simply stated that Charles Foster Offdenson, was dead. He then left as quickly as he had entered, his body in a 90 degree bow the entire way out.

Pickles slumped forward in his chair, Murderface stopped carving his knife into the table and Skwisgaar crossed his arms tighter as he stared out the window. Toki was halfway through his transition from drunk to hungover again and so fell slowly sideways to lay across the couch. Nathan stared at the fireplace for a long time, as still as the air in a coffin.

"Then that settles it." Nathan finally said, completing the conversation in his head out loud. The others looked up as he turned to face them. "I've had this weird feeling for a while now. I don't really know how to explain this, but I think we'll be safest near the ocean." The others blinked at him. "We can lie low in Tampa. At least we know we still have friends there."

The others wondered if this was true but returning to Tampa seemed as good an idea as any. Although they didn't say it out loud, they all felt a strange comfort from the idea of being near the sea.

The Dethkopter whirled into the damp Floridian night air and within hours of the attack, they were bunkering down at a Krampford hotel subsidiary that Toki owned. Security hoods had cleared out the whole building and the remaining Klokateers were converting the tower into their new base of operations; re-routing security satellite feeds, supply shipments and their lords' packages from Sky-Mall.

Skwisgaar leaned against the low railing of the expansive ground floor balcony overlooking the bay. Waves from the incoming Pacific tide beat against the rocks at the base of the small cliff the hotel was built on. The moon was close to the horizon and soon it would dip down into the ocean, chasing after the sun which had set many hours ago. This far south, the sun wouldn't rise again for at least another hour or so. The ice in his Vodka lemon clinked about and he took a moment to admire the silver light glinting off the ocean's surface. He breathed in deeply and exhaled some of his stress to mix with the salty summer breeze.

Losing Charles was like Dethklok losing a limb, or more accurately, their head. How the fuck would they survive without him? Skwisgaar swirled his drink again. How had any of them survived that attack? Had it been blind luck, or had they really had the protection of the Gods? He supposed, either way, he should be grateful. What was that English expression, about horses and their mouths?

Klokateers worked in monkey chains above him, erecting a huge satellite dish on the roof of the hotel. They had been flying dark the whole way south with a jammer on all communication devices. Maybe he should call his mother when they were finished to let her know he was alive? News reels of their burning home must be invading every television set on the planet by now. Usually, Charles would organise a media blackout, but...

"Of course thisch was an inside job!" Murderface's voice carried out to the balcony from the open doors of the hotel lounge bar. "Someone fucked usch. Someone closche."

The three Americans sat in armchairs with glasses of bourbon while Toki lay on the couch clutching a cold mug of coffee to his chest, staring up at the ceiling.

"Why would any one of 'em do that?" Pickles said as he rapidly flicked through the Hotel bar's in-house TV channels, cringing at what passed for programming in Florida these days.

"Well we won't know exachtly why until we figure out who it was." Murderface refilled his glass of bourbon from the bottle on the coffee table in front of them.

"An' how would we figure out who it was unless we knew why it happened? Look, just leave it to-" He stopped suddenly. Each of the bandmates let their gaze fall to the floor and silently finished Pickles's sentence with 'Charles'.