Chapter Nine

Sucking in a deep breath, Silver Eye leaned forward and began his trip down memory lane. Muddy could swear that when he first spoke, the look in his eye seemed twenty years younger.

“Back in ’45, right after they shipped my crack home from Germany.”

Otis lean in, staring. “Hold up the pooch here. You were in World War Two? But you look—”

Silver Eye waved him off. “The River does many things to many people, some good, some not so.”

Muddy nodded at the others. World War Two vets tended to be about ninety. This guy couldn’t be a day past sixty-five.

“Anyway,” Silver Eye continued, disturbed by something in his memory, “the only thing I could find that would give me money to eat and live in a shack was music. Playing this harp, some guitar, singing, whatever. It got me through when this country said only white veterans were eligible for the pampered treatment.

“Anyways, I digress. So there I was, pulling in the big nickels and dimes at night, slinging away at the blues in clubs that would have us. By us, I mean any group of musical misfits we could slap together into something that sounded good.”

“But how’d you learn about the crossroads and that place?”

“Will you shut your trap already?”

The rest of them just sat and waited. Muddy knew something would spill from those old lips that would gear them up for Zack’s rescue, and scare the heck out of them as well. All color sunk from the man’s eye, when the tide washing away from a moonless beach.

* * * *

“The one steady band that rocked the pants off most of Jersey had this guitarist, Tommy Houston,” Silver Eye began. “This dude, he burned the finish off the fretboard. When he took a header into the River, it was Olympic. With one foot in that deep blue and the other on the pulse of the rhythm section, that man balanced heaven and earth, good and evil, blue and the blackest black in his hands. His mind was a direct connection to the power source of the other side. Of course, that irritated whoever was in charge over there, but I’ll get to that soon enough.

“I finally stopped him one night in the back alley. Asked him how he did it. True, he was talented, but heck, we all were. You had to be the cream on top of the cream just to get a gig back then. But one day, about six months before we spoke about it, everything changed. He went from everyday workman-type blues guitarist to slam-bam wunderkind. It’s like he suddenly became a new person. We let it go long as we could then I broke.

“What happened to you, man?’ I said.

“‘What ‘chu talking ‘bout, one eye?’ He regarded me, not like a friend, but more of a child facing a wise old professor.

“It’s Silver Eye, Houston,” I said, “and you know what I’m talking about. You on something?’

“He just chuckled. Kinda like a kid who finds a hundred dollar bill on the street every day. ‘Yep, but not what you think. Ain’t no wacky weed or snuff or voodoo queen. Found myself a new spring for my soul. My own little fountain of youth, but it juices my playing, like setting my muse on fire.’

“‘You must be on something,’ I said. ‘If you’re serious, show me, don’t snow me.’

“He shook his head. ‘Can’t man, can’t. This comes with a price, and it ain’t one you pay off with cash. This can be bad.’

“‘Man, you gotta bring me to this guy.’

“‘Ain’t no guy. It’s a place. A special place.’

“I grabbed hold of him, thinking of my rumbling belly, empty pockets and shoes with no sole. ‘Tell me,’” I said: ‘I can’t live like this no more. I play music for food. It was easier dodging grenades and tracer bullets than fending off rats at American restaurants and grocers. C’mon, man. Tell me.’

“He inhaled, deep as if he were about to sink to the bottom of some ocean—or if he was already there. Air or water, didn’t seem to matter which filled his lungs at that point. Then he stared right through me as if he saw something far away, something that both amazed and frightened the crap out of him.

“He nodded and agreed to take me there, but refused to talk about it until we reached the destination. We walked the same path you all did last night, he with his guitar and me with my harp in my pocket, right to where the trails crossed. Houston stopped a few steps short of where we played. Only one set of footprints marked the spot and I knew then and there that he was the only man who knew of its power—at least around here—at the time.

“‘Watkins,’ he said, ‘I know this sounds wacky, but we’re standing right there on that X and we’re gonna play like our lives depend on it. Mine does and yours could, too.’

“Course, I figured he was either high or owed money to some mob guys who gave him the dope. But then when he stepped up to the plate with that look, I knew he believed in what he said. And that was good enough for me. I had nothing really to lose. Or so I thought.

“‘Man, blues in B-flat. Keep it simple. Eight bar pattern. Real simple, but let yourself go. Let it all go, that’s the key—and this here spot where our feet are—is the lock. Let it go like you never have before. Forget who you are, what ails you and just touch the music’.

“‘What are we trying to open?’ I said.

“‘Don’t screw with me,’ he said. ‘You might not live to regret it.’

“‘Geez, man, I’m just askin’,’ I said. ‘Relax.’”

“‘No, you relax. Close your eyes and just play. Now.’

“So I did. Both of us did. We played tighter and yet looser than we ever did on stage. Soon, the thoughts of confusion and doubt fell away. In a heartbeat, the ground beneath my feet just wasn’t there anymore. I fell—just fell away and down into that place, that River that you swam in last night. I wanted to ask a million questions, but they melted just as fast as they formed in my mind. All that stuck was the music and yet, I didn’t try to play. I just bled music. The current took me and swept me away with Houston, along with any words that tried to voice themselves. The most pleasant drowning sensation imaginable—you probably felt that last night—washed over me and filled every inch of me with its blue ‘water.’

“I heard myself playing, but certainly wasn’t thinking, wasn’t attempting any lines, riffs, solos or songs. It just happened, like someone, or something sliced me open at the soul and bled the music from me like a sieve. And I liked it. The waves kept pushing and rolling me in currents of sweet song until the tide swept back out to sea quicker than Madonna changes her image and politicians lose IQ points.

“We found ourselves in that same spot as last night, probably feeling the same thing as you guys. And of course, within minutes, something came to greet us.”

“‘Holy mother of Ella Fitzgerald!’ I said to him. ‘Where are we, man?

“Houston just grinned and froze me. ‘Science lesson 101, my man. Welcome to the crossroads highway.’

“Where are we?

“‘Wherever the crossroads lead.’

“‘Damn, man, are we in hell?’ I said. ‘Didn’t Rob—’ “‘Old Robert Johnson didn’t meet no devil, at least not the one you’d expect. No deals here, but it’s pretty damn easy to lose yourself here.’ “‘How?’

“He just smiled and started walking away from me. ‘Just wait…you’ll see.’”

A silence followed that ached more than when you watched a horror movie and knew the killer lurked only seconds away.

Silver Eye Watkins smiled that wicked smile as if he held the secrets to the universe behind it. “Go ahead. You can ask questions now.”

Muddy thought they must have resembled the rejects from the Dumb & Dumber movies. He slapped the arms of the beat up recliner and hacked a long, stuttered laugh.

“Something wrong with you?” Silver Eye asked. “I finally want your response and now you act like those idiots on the streets who act but don’t speak?”

“They’re called mimes, Grandpa.” You couldn’t shut up Otis for long, but even his rebuttal lacked spice.

Poe rarely lost focus, however, which seemed sort of ironic. “You didn’t finish the story,” she said evenly.

Silver Eye sighed, head hung low. “I went there with him couple more times, but he got greedy.”

“Where is he now,” Muddy asked, hands white on the guitar.

“Next topic, please.”

Corey whistled to himself.

“If there’s no ‘selling of the soul to the devil,’ then what harm is there in traveling? Besides those drummer apes, of course,” Poe said.

Muddy had a feeling Poe’s tongue was loose because she’d tasted sight for the first time since forever.

“Honey,” Silver Eye cooed, “the devil would be chewed up and spit out if he took up residence over there. That little vignette you breezed through—”

“Breezed through?” Muddy sputtered. “Those oafs nearly killed us!”

“If you think they were tough, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Corey tried looking cool, but his eyes told a different story. “Like what? Jumping thunder sticks? Humongous hungry horns? Hordes of little people tooting flutophones?”

If one eye could pierce someone’s soul, that bluesman accomplished just that as he stared back at their horn guy. “You wouldn’t survive one night there, buddy.”

“Who?”

Silver Eye waved them away. “Don’t matter none. It ain’t like you’ll be getting that far, anyway. By the time you reached the real dangers, the ones you’d have to beat to get your brother back, I’d be able to find you by the trail of body parts the rest of that world’s horrors left behind.”

Muddy sighed, knowing the answer to his question. “You’re not going to tell us, are you?”

“What would be the fun in that? Did Obi-wan tell Luke Skywalker about the trials he’d face in all of the Star Wars movies? No, he let the kid fumble and tumble through those Jedi thingamabobs. Did Morpheus tell Neo how to do all those wacky kicks? Nope, he let Neo fall flat on his face until he was ready.”

The band sat there, allowing it all to sink in, brains brewing, but silent. Of course, the absence of sound could only avoid the vacuum that was Otis for so long.

“So, does this magic work in this world? Or just in the land of the hairy drums? You going to let us in on that secret or what?”

“Your mama ever whoop you? Recently?”

The little drummer shivered. “Um…”

“I thought so,” Silver Eye said, a knowing glint shimmering in his eye. “Maybe if she kept it up, you might learn to think before your lips flap.”

The others giggled, knowing that Otis’ mom was the one person in this world who could zip those lips. Muddy often wondered if something existed in that other world that rivaled the thunder that torched their ears every time she got ticked.

“And the answer is?” Corey asked, hands conducting in the air.

The old man grumbled to himself and tapped out a rhythm on his thighs.

“Umm…”

“Yes?

“Tomorrow’s Friday. Come here after school. We’ll train more, and then I’ll answer your questions.”

A cacophony of mumbled curses drowned out whatever he said next. Why would they have to wait another day just for an answer?

Obviously, Silver Eye knew this was coming. “If you’re serious about this, you’ll have no problem with tomorrow. Luke, Harry, Neo and Frodo didn’t become heroes overnight.”

“But—” Muddy tried to step in.

“Yeah, I know. He’s your brother. He’s over there, I understand that. However, you remember what happened when Luke rushed to fight Vader? Or how Vader became Vader?”

Of course they did. Everyone knew Star Wars, either the first or second trilogy. The group might wind up losing more than a hand over there if Silver Eye wasn’t bluffing.

“The bottom line is, you need to wait. Got it?”

A few mumbled, frustrated but dealing with it.

“You gonna listen to me? Speak up!”

Grumbling a disjointed “yes,” they nodded, four heads in defeat.

Poe stood up, but instead of heading toward the door, she ran her fingers over the odd keyboard-ish thing the old man gave her. “So, what’s the agenda?”

“What?”

“You said we’re not ready yet. Fine. I can deal with that. But tell me what we have to do to get to Zack. You say we haven’t hit the tip of the scary iceberg that comprises that little “crossroads” world of yours. If that’s really true, you’re missing the main point.”

“Which is? Tell me, little angel.”

Even with those cloudy eyes, the fire that sparked in them couldn’t have been missed. “Don’t call me that, old man,” she said and tossed the instrument back to him. “I’m not your angel or anyone else’s.”

Silver Eye raised his hands in mock defeat. “My apologies, Miss Poe. So, do tell, what am I missing here?”

“He’s been there for nearly forty-eight hours and if you’re not shoving a pile through those lips of yours and if scarier things exist than what we’ve seen over there, then there’s a good chance—”

“Don’t,” Muddy whispered, mind already forming images of what could be.

“You’re thinking the same thing, so grow up and deal with it, Edgar.”

He couldn’t believe she’d just said that. He sunk inside.

Otis mouthed the “D” word to him, attempting to lessen the blow. Muddy did understand, but the lash from her tongue still stung. She knew how his mom’s passing had affected him. “He’s not dead.”

“He might be and you have to prepare yourself for that,” she said.

“So, then why do you want to go?” He felt the filter slip off his lips, not typical of him, even with the band. “Want to check out a dead body? You never liked him, anyway. Might be a thrill ride. Right?” Flames nearly followed the words out of his mouth. Regret immediately trailed behind. Instead of spewing fire and brimstone, Poe executed the worst retaliation of all.

She stared right through him, a sheen of salty liquid coating the clouded lenses of blue. Oh crap. Nothing else needed to be said. He’d stepped in it, rolled around in it and had submerged his head until both ears were clogged. He would pay for this. Didn’t know when or where, but it would come.

Silver Eye whistled a dire tune. “Boy, you’ve a lot to learn about women.”

Despite any intended comebacks storming within his head, his lips knew the battle was pointless. “I want all of us there when we go,” the guitarist managed. “Without the whole group, it won’t work, anyway. I really—”

“Shut up,” Poe said, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. “I’m going. The band needs me and I don’t let people down.” She refused to make eye contact, which was just fine with him for the moment. “So when do we go?” She looked right at Silver Eye, the tears already burned away.

There it began, the would-be woman who normally reeked of sunshine, was now showing the first signs of a crack in her armor. Whether it would help or hurt her would reveal itself soon enough. Muddy wished that when it did, they’d be there to help her.

“The lady asked, ‘When do we go?’ “ Otis sometimes wavered in his bravado, but never his straightforwardness. “I think we’ve got ourselves a mission.”

The old man stared at the group for a tense moment then spoke. “In time.”

“What?” Muddy spat. “We just agreed that Zack might be, well, he’s not going to last long there on his own. You’ve made that clear.”

“You’re not ready. I said that already. You go there now and people will die.”

Corey’s head shot up. “You don’t know that. If we don’t go there, someone will definitely die.”

Silver Eye shook his head slowly, as if he held a deep, dark secret. “You’re not going. Said and done. Remember the ‘respect your elders’ thing? You need training. I’m not about to sacrifice four pains in the butt just because they want to go, go, go. This ain’t some videogame where you can read a book of tricks and beat the thing! People who know what they’re doing sometimes don’t come back.” He let his gaze hit the floor.

“Houston’s still there, isn’t he,” Muddy asked. “That’s what you believe, isn’t it?”

A wave of an old hand cut the air. “Probably nothing left of him now. Stupid greedy fool. He had to go. The place is magnetic—it pulls you in—you’ll see.”

“When did you last see him?”

Muddy swore a tear formed in that one eye. “In nineteen-sixty-nine. He desperately wanted to do Woodstock and blow the place wide open.”

“Like Hendrix did,” Corey added.

“Yep, like Hendrix.”

“But, he never returned.”

Sighing, Silver Eye continued. “Nope, and people here thought he’d just picked up and headed for Chicago or New Orleans or some blues capital. I knew the truth.”

“What happened to him? Was it the Dark Muse?”

The others turned to him, a million questions in their eyes.

“You think he’s still alive? Him or the muse?”

Silver Eye’s head turned toward the wall of photos. “The Dark Muse…it ain’t always the same. I think the River—and what rules the other side wears them out from time to time.”

Muddy felt worry wash over him. “They grow evil of that magnitude there?”

“Doesn’t every world? When Hitler died, we got a whole slew of new demons, no shortage of them. Did it stop when Bin Laden got killed?”

“There’s darkness everywhere,” Muddy said, understanding.

“You got it, boy. Sometimes people even go looking for it.”

“So what do you think happened to him?”

That eye, the silver one, seemed to come alive and bore straight into him. “Probably the same thing that’ll happen to you if you head over there before you’re ready.”

“Okay,” the boy replied, even though he didn’t know to what he was replying.

“So, you’ll complete your training with me?”

His lips released the words before Muddy’s brain registered the question. “Of course.”

* * * *

The moment they left the house and crossed the street, Otis spoke. “So, when do we leave?”

Muddy didn’t hesitate. “First thing tomorrow morning. Pack your gear.”

“We’re skipping school?” Otis sounded giddy at the thought.

Muddy grinned. “No one will notice. Besides, remember what Silver Eye said? Time acts different there. We could be gone a week and still make math class.”

“Let’s not.”

“Still,” Poe said. “You don’t know that for sure. I can’t deal with a suspension.”

“Trust me, we’ll be back in time. Why do you think Silver Eye looks so young?”

Corey put a big hand on his friend’s chest. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Stop quoting movies.” Muddy’s focused stare rivaled Silver Eye’s. “Even Han Solo wouldn’t turn down this adventure.”

“But we’re not heroes. We’re the ‘The Accidentals.’ “

* * * *

Morning came without incident, but also with little sleep. No strange sounds. No mud-caked shoes. Yet Muddy would have liked to have encountered his mother, real or the dream version, one last time. Their little group of misfits were about to embark on a journey without permission into a land, or world, that none of them understood. In a few hours, Poe, Otis, Corey and he would disappear at the crossroads—to hopefully return—and not alone.

Muddy and his dad exchanged morning grumbles, typical of a school day morning. He headed for the cereal and coffee, hoping to get through the meal with little or no conversation. Despite the friction between them, he couldn’t bring himself to lie to the man who never failed him. If Muddy did, it hurt, and as his father often told him, guilt sprouted in neon letters all over his face. Great writers understood characters and everything that went along with it. Reading his expressions must have been akin to flipping through those “See Dick Run” books.

“How’s the prepping for the big battle going?” his father asked, the man’s face behind his laptop reading the news.

The teen’s fingers nearly launched the coffee mug into the ceiling. Nerves would kill him one day, he thought. Thankfully, he thought before freaking out. That was hard to accomplish with his anxiety running rampant.

“Uh…yep,” he replied in a voice he hoped sounded normal. “Just one more rehearsal before the shindig tonight.”

Crap, he thought, realizing that before they’d decided to save his brother’s life, or attempt to, that they’d auditioned and had to perform at eight o’clock tonight! The order of the bands wouldn’t be determined until the lottery before the show. Hopefully, they’d get a later slot. Just in case one of them had to be replaced.

Bad joke, he thought, chiding himself. Don’t even think that.

“Ed? Edgar? You there? I asked if you were ready.”

“For what?” His mind spun, hoping the truth had remained beneath his flesh. “Oh yeah. The battle. We’ll be set to kick serious butt tonight.”

What did Silver Eye say about time behaving differently over there? Oh yeah, he didn’t. They’d assumed and hoped they wouldn’t return to a world which had aged centuries without them.

Then his father flashed the knowing smile, which always worried the boy.

“So, who’s the victim tonight?”

“What?” Shards of ice rained down his neck.

His father tossed his hands in the air. “The bassist who’s enemies with fate and good luck. Did you find anyone brave enough to pull duty who’s not worried about electrocution, impaling themselves on a string, or drowning in the crowd surf?”

A laugh escaped Muddy’s lips. One thing about his father, no matter how scary his stories were, he could always get people to laugh. Most horror writers could. He often stated that being scared and laughing your butt off were two sides of the same coin.

“Yep. Leo offered. Not the most amazing player.”

“He’s the only one left?”

“Just about.”

He shot Muddy his best evil eye. “Better stop killing off the four-stringers.”

The laughter came as a release, even though Muddy couldn’t shake the bad feeling brewing inside him.

“Now hurry up and eat. You’re gonna be late for school.”

Man, he hated lying to his father. “Hopefully not,” he replied, crossing his fingers that his words would be partially true.

The rest of the meal ensued without discussion. His dad checked the message boards on his writers’ site, whining and moaning about sales, the classics and other stuff he usually did before he sat down to write in his “zone.”

Muddy wondered if writers ever went over, or was it just for musicians. Words could be just as magical as music, in a way, but he couldn’t wrap his mind around how the curtain would part for a story. Weird. Too bad one of Dad’s conferences wasn’t soon. He’d bet money that if a passage were possible, one of the serious writers already found it.

Grabbing the strange guitar Silver Eye gave him two nights ago, he headed toward the door, half wishing his father would have asked where he really was going and forced him to stay home. His hands shook so hard the case nearly slipped from a sweaty grasp.

* * * *

The group met at the corner of Muddy’s street with quiet excitement, three of them bouncing on their heels. Even Otis remained relatively mum that morning. Muddy figured that fear had found its way into everyone’s heart sooner or later. Only Poe appeared gung-ho, but after a fifteen-plus-year sentence in her home, not much would scare her. Hopefully, that would stay true, at least for today.

He wondered how they’d managed to avoid the school bus. Otis insisted on hitching a ride with Muddy instead of riding in his mom’s convertible. Poe always walked and had Corey as a bodyguard.

“Leo?”

The tall player in the role of karmic misfortune smiled. Somehow, they had all doubted he’d go along with the idea, but he’d showed up anyway. “Hey bud. Heard you needed a hand. Since you didn’t have an actual bass yet, I borrowed Poe’s whatchamacallit thing. I can lay down a mean low line on that for you.”

How Otis got Leo to come, Muddy would never know. He probably didn’t believe much, if any, of the story, yet by the strained look on his face, something had clicked in his brain—something he’d sensed wasn’t right.

“Thanks, Leo. Trust me, we appreciate any extra hands we can get.”

The journey took only a fraction of the time it did the other night, or so it seemed. In the daylight, shadows still existed in the Iron section of town, but didn’t pose as much of a threat. In no time at all, The Accidentals found themselves out of their neighborhood and scaling the hump of the landfill, peering over the top as if a tiger, or other beast, waited on the other side because the real dangers lie behind the barrier they couldn’t see. But reality ceased to exist over there. That was the problem.

The group walked the path to the crossroads as though they were simply following a well-traveled trail. Under the protection of the sunlight, the “X” of the passing lines seemed to be as imposing as an intersection in the middle of nowhere. Long grass streaked down each of the four lanes, but lay trodden to the ground and devoid of any natural color. Wind failed to reach inside the amphitheater of waste and forgotten land, lending a silence to the setting that coaxed the fear back into Muddy’s veins. Sometimes, the absence of a threat frightened a person much worse than when it was shoved right into your face; especially when that fear had seen your face and many more lurked behind it.

Forming a cross, they unslung their instruments and gazed at each other, waiting for the word.

“Well,” Corey said, “are we just going to stand here like idiots or are we going to play to get our butts over there?”

“Well, what do you suggest we play, sax man?” Otis chimed in, possibly feeling a little more brazen. “We don’t know how the old man got the ball rolling the other night. Once it rolled, it was pretty easy to join in, but how do we start?”

“Muddy?” Corey turned to the guitarist. “You really turned it on with him and sent us over. Can you do it again?”

“Do what?” Leo asked. No one answered him.

Truth was, Muddy had no idea what Silver Eye did last time. He’d just followed the old man’s lead until the music flowed from his veins. “Umm….”

“I know,” Poe said, sounding impatient. “While you three were jacking around with ol’ one eye, I paid attention to the music. It’s pretty simple—in theory.”

“Theory?” Otis squawked in a high-pitched whine. He’d inhaled like someone had just taken a vacuum cleaner to his lungs.

Poe raised her hands in mock surrender. “Listen, if you’re too—”

“Don’t you dare say the word.”

She smiled as though she could see his pained expression. “Okay, I’ll shut up, but we’ve gotta get going here.”

“Otis, give me the rhythm.”

He opened his mouth to inquire which rhythm, but then zipped his lips and took hold of the sticks. Gripping them tight, he twirled them once, loosening his wrists and fingers slightly before rapping on the top of the drum skin. In a matter of seconds, a boogie-like, two-four beat echoed through the garbage canyon. His eyes closed and he hung his head back, drowning in the pattern.

A deep fog horn bellowed beside Muddy. He turned to see Corey sound a low D and hold it over the drummer’s syncopation. The bigger teen inhaled, almost in a sonorous tone like what emanated from his sax. He sank—deep—into that zone, even with a dearth of notes. The way he played said it all. The sax became a voice that invited them to join.

Even Leo, the bassist du jour, hopped in on the fun and laid down a serpentine line that shook the dirt upon which they stood.

Muddy shivered.

They all seemed so focused. So determined. So…brave.

And where was he?

No matter how much he missed Zack, no matter how much he wanted to be the next Rambo, Luke Skywalker, even Harry Potter, he hadn’t been born with a lightning scar on his forehead or Jedi blood coursing through his veins, so he was definitely out of luck in that department. He wondered if Poe knew what lie ahead. Or what lay hidden in his own heart.

She hummed, loud enough to cut through the others’ noise, the voice of an angel who’d seen way too much hell in her short life. He wished he could tell her all, tell her how he felt, but his mom, her dad, both their lives’ baggage—it served as an easy out. Maybe one day he’d have the strength to knock down those walls.

Sucking it up, Muddy gripped the neck of his guitar until his fingers hurt and slipped a pick into place. Taking a deep breath, his thumb and forefinger plucked the first magical note. He thought it was magical, but knew there was some rational, scientific reason for what happened in the next couple of minutes.

The bends which rode Otis’ rhythm slithered around Corey’s sax line and answered Poe’s call, wafted from the strings as they vibrated. Muddy spun a web of blue that made the antiquated oddity of a guitar seem like a vintage Les Paul. How Silver Eye got his hands on that musical contraption that no guitar luthier had ever imagined was beyond him, but none of that mattered now.

As the waves of melody and rhythm grew, the curtain once again parted.

He tried his hardest to keep his eyes open, to see what lay behind this reality and the one they’d visited—and were headed to again. Yet, whatever power controlled the front stage of life to the back lowered the drapes on his lids. He saw something that he would never, ever forget, but then it dissipated, just like the images of his friends traveling next to him. The last picture his open eyes saw was the peaceful, closed ones of the band.