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"No Man's
Land" Mike was sitting in the armchair, arms crossed and the meanest look Micky had ever seen was playing with his face.
Micky was trapped, and his stealthy arrival had only made him look guiltier. Trust Mike to never let an issue drop
and now he was in serious trouble.
Micky hated being scared of Mike, and usually he laughed him off, but there were situations, like this one, when he just wished he could run and hide. Mike could hurt him, he had in the past even though he claimed it was by accident, claimed he just lost his temper, but Micky knew he meant it. And now it was going to happen all over again.
They had been out playing a gig at one of the best clubs downtown, and if they were good enough, they would have a
string of gigs there. Micky felt sheepish now, like a child standing in front of his headmaster, what could he possibly say to make it up to Mike? It was his fault they lost the gig.
"Where have you been?" Mike spoke calmly and slowly, eyeing Micky's humbled form up and down.
"I...I, um, thought that I might hang round the clubs a little more, I didn't feel like coming home right away."
"Trying to avoid me?"
"What?!" Micky's voice raised a couple of octaves, "No! Why would I want to do that?"
Mike looked at him menacingly. He cleared his throat yet never broke eye contact. "So are you going to explain?"
"Explain?"
"Why you fucked up the gig? Or am I to assume you're going to do this on a regular basis?"
Mike was getting really pissed now; Micky could see it. The drummer looked down at his feet, and his head cleared of any useful thoughts.
"It was a girl wasn't it?"
"What?"
"Micky, would you drop the innocent act?! You sang the wrong fucking song for Christ's sake! It sounded
ridiculous; WE looked ridiculous. What were you thinking?!"
Mike was on his feet now, glaring at Micky like shit on his shoe. Micky's mouth worked but all that came out were little noises of embarrassment, showing his fear.
The Texan put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "You've really let me down Mick."
Then came was the fatal mistake. Micky kicked himself for it.
"But it wasn't my fault." He argued.
That was it, he had been almost home and dry with a mere reprimand and now he had made things a hundred times worse. He should have just admitted defeat, apologized, but oh no, not bigmouth Dolenz.
Mike was fuming; you could almost see the smoke and this made the whole argument go a hundred times quicker. Micky shook with every word Mike yelled at him and was tempted to run, but there was a certain amount of pride stopping him
from doing so. Why weren't the others backing him up or at least trying to calm Mike down, surely they could hear him?
As Micky's mind ran with a thousand little thoughts, he didn't have time to prepare himself for the finale of the
situation.
The blow knocked him sideways, sending him to the floor in a split second. He lay there for a long time, feeling a
warm liquid dribbled from his nose contrasting with the icy coldness of the concrete floor. Mike seemed to be waiting
too until finally moving off silently, entering the bedroom they shared and closing the door quietly behind him. End of discussion.
Since that day, work dried up to a complete stop. It had never been flowing, but now they had nothing and this was
taking its toll on Mike. He never said anything more about that night, about just leaving Micky there, bleeding on the floor. Micky would have stayed there all night, just to prove something when Mike came back down in the morning, make him feel guilty, but Davy came from his bedroom shortly after Mike had gone and ordered Micky onto the couch. Micky was sour. No one had cared about how he felt, only about how it would affect Mike. Poor Mike, he had so much to deal with, he didn't need immature kids spoiling it all for him. Micky took on a dark look, which lasted for a couple of days, but it slowly dropped when he found that no one was taking any notice.
Micky lay on the couch, surrounded by discarded magazines and watched the dappled sunlight play against the
bandstand. They hadn't rehearsed in days, none of them felt like it, what was the use? The drummer gazed around the room and centered on Mike and Peter who were sitting at the kitchen table. They were having a quiet conversation and Micky had to strain to hear what they were saying.
"But do you really think it's for us? I mean, five months Pete." Mike was glancing over a piece of paper in his hand and there was a concerned tone in his voice.
"Michael, it's a brilliant opportunity, I mean, we practically get paid for doing nothing."
Mike looked at him uncertainly and his eyebrows knitted together in thought.
"I s'pose you're right Pete." He sighed.
Later that evening, the truth came out. There was a job that Mike was interested in, for all of them, but there
were a lot of issues to consider. The job was in a large hotel in the mountains, where they would have to take care
of it during the winter months, just them, alone. Micky didn't like the sound of that. They would be isolated, for five months. Davy looked a bit disgruntled too, the fact that there would be no girls for that long didn't sound too appealing, but when Mike finally reasoned that if they didn't try, they'd end up starving in the street, the Englishman looked persuaded.
When asked what he thought, Micky could feel three sets of eyes burning into him. Mike's were stern and commanding, Peter's were pleading and Davy's were anticipating. They all waited for Micky to speak. Micky knew that if he disagreed they would probably go without him anyway; leave him behind.
"Sure," he breathed quietly, "why not?"
The hotel was bustling with non-stop activity; everyone was getting ready for their well-deserved break.
Micky stood behind Mike in the lobby, watching silently. Mike had a big grin on his face, pleased with himself for
securing the job and finally giving himself something worthwhile to do. Occasionally he turned to look a Micky
and once he gave a reassuring wink. It didn't brighten Micky's mood much. There was already a threat of snow and
he hated it when it was cold. He wanted to go back home to LA, not trapped up here.
The daytime janitor showed them around, which took most of the day given the enormity of the hotel, and then they were left there, alone. The hotel had several floors; each one had a main hall, as well as smaller recreational ones and what seemed like hundreds of bedrooms. The guys separated to take a look around and all became quiet.
The evening crawled on slowly and Peter found that he was still scouting out the building. He couldn't get over the shear size of the place. On the fifth floor he followed a long series of corridors, gold and burgundy in color,
before they opened up like a giant Japanese fan welcoming a large hall that glowed with the glimmer of a huge log fire that was nestled in the center.
There was a silhouette painted on the wall and Peter adjusted his eyes to see who was there.
"How you doing, Pete?" Mike asked without looking up, "Settling in?"
Peter gave a sigh of relief, although he didn't quite know why, and shuffled over to where Mike was nestled in a large armchair, which surrounded him completely. The blond made note that Mike had his legs tucked under him, curled in an almost feline position, something that Peter would never have expected him to do.
"Sit." Mike gestured to a nearby chair and Peter accepted, flopping down into it heavily.
Mike smiled into a glass of liquor that he had cuddled up with and then looked up at Peter with large cocoa eyes.
"Well, what do you think of her?"
"She's enormous; I don't think I've ever seen a bigger building. I haven't seen the others in a long time."
"I know, I don't think Micky's been out of the games room, and I have no idea where Davy disappeared to."
Mike watched the fire with a constant gaze and Peter could see the flames dance in his eyes. There was a strange
atmosphere, the blond couldn't put his finger on what it was, but he didn't like it. Mike's gaze continued, his eyes
seeming to take on a dewy effect, as if he were remembering a fond memory.
"Yeah," He finally spoke, breaking the silence with an ominous tone, "This is gonna be one hell of a winter!"
Among the many duties that came with the job was taking care of three horses in some stables around the back of the hotel. They were beautiful animals, pure bred and healthy. They were all part of the extravagance of the hotel and were symbols of the kind of people who usually stayed at there; people who had more money than they knew what to
do with. Davy spent most of his time with the animals, riding and grooming them, remembering his life back in
England when he spent more time with horses than people.
"There you go," The Englishman smiled at the rate the animal before him devoured its food. Slowly he raised his
auburn head and gazed across the open stretches of white, snow covered plains mixed with the tall peaks of the
looming mountains. Turning, he looked back at the huge hotel, the ink spot against the ivory backdrop. The sun was
vanishing beneath the mountains, casting a dying amber light and Davy watched from the distance as some of the
lights in the magnificent building were switched on, giving their own eerie glow. His eyes noticed the window at the very top of the building, just below the attic, and watched as a light was switched on there too. He knew that was Mike up there, hiding himself away where he couldn't be found. On the first couple of nights they had still had meals together as a group, but gradually that ritual had disappeared. He rarely saw Mike anymore, the Texan was acting as if he was stowing something away, tangible or not, and an agonizing curiosity gnawed away at the Englishman's mind.
Mike was changing, and he was definitely hiding something. They would just have to find out what.
Days turned into weeks and everything seemed to be going smoothly. The guys found numerous things to occupy their
minds. Mike seemed to center solely on his music, spending hours by himself just playing his guitar and writing down
random thoughts. A modern hermit.Peter spent most of his time outside in the snow. He hadn't seen snow like it since he was a child and although it scared him that now they had little chance of leaving the hotel, he couldn't get over how beautiful the views were. The mountains glistened with their own special magic and he found himself endlessly sitting outside in one of the many gardens, just thinking.
Micky was not so keen. The solitude gave him a lot of time to think, and when he spent too much time thinking he
realized how miserable he was. They'd been there for a fortnight now, and he had never felt so lonely. The hotel
was so big, they could have a wing each, and because of that, he hardly ever talked to the others. He could go a
whole day without seeing any of them. Sometimes he was terrified by the thought that they had actually left, or
worse yet, something had happened to them. It would take him weeks to find out.
He didn't tell Mike that the size of the building scared him, that the fact that they wouldn't be leaving for five
months was worse than the death penalty, he just kept quiet, to keep Mike happy. Thoughts of Mike had been
plaguing Micky since the night when Mike had hit him. Things just hadn't seemed the same since, and Micky had lost all trust and respect for the Texan. In fact, it was Mike's volatile character that scared Micky even more than
the hotel did. As the days went by, he seemed to act stranger and stranger. He had always been the control freak
and would have some strange moods, but usually that was just him being moody. Recently, since their arrival at the
hotel, he had seemed to become more recluse, yet more unpredictable. His mood would suddenly swing from one emotion to the other. Micky used to be able to tell if Mike was in a bad mood, he had certain traits like crossing his
arms, but recently Micky found that Mike would just suddenly snap for no apparent reason and more than often
the drummer found himself in the crossfire.
The floors were freezing against his bare feet as he stepped edgily around various tables, looking at all the
carving knives hanging on a nearby wall. Micky rubbed his hands together; it was definitely getting colder. Creepy,
he thought, as he shifted silently through the hotel kitchen.
It was so cold. Micky could see his breath dancing on the air, like the fog that sometimes set out over the beach
back home. God he missed LA. The sooner this sentence was over, the better...for all of them.
Micky wandered into the food storage room and nosed among the various boxes of cereals and dried fruit. He wasn't hungry, just bored. He neared the back of the storage room and suddenly realized how hard his heart was beating; it was pounding so loud, ringing in his ears. His breath quickened and his chest tightened, something was wrong, someone was there. The building was so old and spooky, and Micky was the first to admit his belief in all things supernatural. There was something about the building he didn't like, something was very wrong.
Micky spun around just in time to watch the large iron door slam shut, locking him inside. For a moment the drummer just stood there, paralyzed with fear and nausea, unable to comprehend, at first, what had just happened. Then his body took over and he leapt at the door, screaming at the top of his voice and pounding on it mercilessly.
He screamed and shouted for all he was worth, the fear of being forever abandoned gnawing at his soul. Soon he wore himself out and he slumped against the door, his breath ragged and his throat sore.
"Help," he whispered meekly, his hand running feebly down the cold iron, tainted with blood from the continual
pounding.
"What do you want help for?" A voice joked mockingly from the other side.
Micky's heart pounded harder, partly through fear of some kind of stranger who had locked him up, and partly through excitement of being released.
"I can't get out, help me!" Micky climbed to his feet and pressed his whole body up against the door.
"Why should I?"
"Who is this?"
"Can't you tell?"
"No! Let me out for fuck's sake!" In Micky's fear and confusion, he couldn't concentrate on the voice that was
taunting him; all he wanted was to be released.
"Temper, temper!"
"Let me out!" Micky kicked the door several times, trying to emphasize his point.
"Well, now maybe I will, and maybe I won't."
"Let me out!" Micky screamed as loud as he could, trying to fight back tears. He was terrified, and his hands shook. Everyone knew that he got claustrophobic; everyone knew he couldn't stand being locked up on his own. "Please."
The lock sounded a loud clanging of metal that rang painfully in Micky's ears and the door swung open.
There was no one, an empty kitchen stared back at him and creaked menacingly with the howling wind outside. Micky
quickly scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, hiding the tears that had toppled over and gazed around the
vacant room.
"Hello?" he asked meekly and stepped giddily from the doorway. He moved forward a little more before he heard a
couple of somber footsteps behind him and the iron door slammed shut.
Micky spun on his heels; fists raised and found Mike leaning smugly against the door, a playful look in his eyes.
Micky was still breathing hard and he stood there, mouth wide with astonishment.
"Mike?" he murmured, unsure if he was seeing things.
Mike smiled and stepped forward, arms outstretched as if he were surrendering in front of a firing squad.
"Micky, man, you sure get worked up!"
"You locked me in there?" Micky still couldn't believe what was going on.
"Hey, babe," Mike was only a couple of inches away now, "It was only a joke."
Mike began to chuckle to himself and reached out, running a hand through Micky's hair before giving him a pat on the head.
"Only a joke," He repeated himself.
That was it; Micky couldn't take anymore. He had slowly simmered and now he couldn't delay the inevitable boiling
point. He hated this place and he wanted to go home, he hated everything to do with the hotel, he hated being
lonely and now, if it wasn't bad enough, Mike was having a 'joke' at his expense! How dare he, after all he had
done, after all the pain he had caused!
All his anger seemed to filter through his body from his mind and bottled up in his hands. Before he knew what he
was doing, he swung out and slammed his fist into Mike's face, sending the Texan plummeting to the floor.
Micky stood paralyzed, realizing what he had done, and gazed at Mike, sprawled across the cold tiles. Micky's
mouth worked but nothing came out. His hands shook and he watched as Mike slowly staggered to his feet. His ebony
head rose up into Micky's blurred vision and there was a look of pure hate in his eyes. Blood pumped from his nose
and he dabbed at it aimlessly with the back of his hand. Large droplets of the crimson liquid fell from his face and
gathered with the already existing pool on the once immaculate white floor.
"You!" Mike growled, but before he could continue, his gaze fell over Micky's shoulder and the drummer turned to find Davy entering the room.
"What the hell's gone on here?" The Englishman stood, hands firmly on his hips and his eyebrows drawn together in
confusion.
Micky looked back at the Texan and they gained eye contact.
"Nothing," Mike breathed wearily, drawing himself up to his full height, "I...fell - tripped over the stupid table leg."
Mike kept eye contact with Micky while he spoke, his eyes telling a different story.
"No harm done." Mike gave a small smile, before ruffling Micky's curls once more, tightening his grip on them for a brief second, causing Micky to wince, before he strode confidently out of the room.
Micky knew that he was in trouble now, what had he done? But there was also another feeling inside of him. Glory. He had actually hit Mike and it made him feel slightly happy with himself.
Davy shook his head and sighed. "'e's been acting weird since we got here. I think this old place is having a
strange affect on him."
(Inspired by
Stephen King's "The Shining")
By Woolhat's
Travelling Mood
The pad was dark when Micky got home. Large shadows from the moonlight were painted across every wall and they watched him creep in slowly. Micky bowed his head and removed his shoes, trying to make as little noise as possible. If he could survive tonight he would be safe. He moved edgily forward, aiming for the spiral stairs. He just needed to get to bed, by morning all would be forgotten; he knew that. Micky held his breath as placed his foot on the first step of the stairs. Soon he would be home and free. The drummer took one more step and was blinded by a sudden flash of light. He shielded his eyes for a moment to let them adjust, and then turned to the source.
"I just hope he snaps out of it soon." Micky mumbled, glancing wistfully at the spreading pool of blood. It was only a matter of time before Mike would get his own back, and with the strange way he's been acting, Micky didn't like to contemplate how Mike would have his revenge.