Chum

The taxi's rumbling as we cross the Ben Franklin Bridge, and I'm gripping the seat like it's a lifeline. I've always hated suspension bridges. There's just something about being suspended in mid-air, high above the water, that feels so unnatural. My stomach's churning, and my teeth feel a little too sharp in my mouth. I glance over at Jamila, who's staring out the window, taking in the view.

"Uh, Jami, I gotta confess something. I have this sorta phobia of suspension bridges," I say, my voice tinged with embarrassment. It sounds silly when I say it out loud, but I can't help it. "I saw that one movie where, like, it got hit with a missile and all the cars on the bridge fell off. Effed me up for a while."

Jamila turns to look at me, her eyes meeting mine. "Hey, it's okay. Everyone's afraid of something. Just hold on a bit longer, we're almost across. You know I'm not a fan of heights either."

And she takes my hand, her fingers interlocking with mine, warm and reassuring. My heart still feels like it's doing somersaults, but somehow it's a little less terrifying with her hand in mine. I squeeze back, feeling a bit of the tension leak out of me.

Finally, the bridge ends, and I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding. We're now on the New Jersey side, and the taxi winds its way through the streets of Camden. We're not in the central part; we head down a couple of side streets, each one looking more deserted than the last. Everything's a blur of faded paint and crumbling brick, of graffiti and broken streetlights, a city abandoned by its municipality.

It's like we've crossed over into a different world, one that's harsher, rawer. My grip on Jamila's hand tightens unconsciously as the taxi slows down and pulls up in front of the bar. It's the kind of place that you'd miss if you blinked while passing by, hidden away like some kind of secret.

The taxi drops us off in front of "The Lonesome Dove," a place that looks like the love child of a pirate ship and an old Western saloon. It's set off by itself, isolated on an almost empty block, with dim streetlights flickering in the twilight. I pay the driver, throw Jamila a glance that probably screams, "Are you sure about this?", and cautiously step out. The wooden façade of the building is chipped and faded, like the paint gave up a long time ago. Neon lights attempt to buzz to life over the entrance, spelling out the bar's name, but the 'O' and 'V' are unlit, making it read more like "The Lnesome De."

There are people hanging out front, metalheads draped in studded leather jackets, vintage band shirts, and combat boots. A couple of them have instruments in beat-up cases; one guy is lazily strumming a guitar. They're all chatting, smoking, or looking at their phones as the sky above turns a deeper shade of blue. A girl with a jet-black Mohawk tosses a cigarette butt onto the street, stomping it out with her steel-toed boot. She catches my eye and nods, a brief acknowledgement, as if to say, "Yeah, you're in the right place, but don't get too comfortable."

The sun is starting to set, casting long, spindly shadows that seem to crawl along the cracked pavement, and everyone outside seems to be savoring these last moments of freedom before heading into the dim cave of the bar. It's like they're all part of a tribe I never knew existed, and now that I'm here, right at the entrance of their lair, I'm not sure what the initiation rites are. Or if I'd pass them.

Jamila looks excited, though, her eyes sparkling as she takes in the surroundings. "This is where the magic happens," she says, looking at me with a smile, but I can't tell if she's joking or if she really means it.

I sort of hope she's joking, because the place is giving me vibes. And not the good kind.

The bar above ground feels like a buffer zone, a purgatory where people are deciding whether they're ready to descend into the subterranean world below. It's not any less grungy, though; the floors still have a tacky resistance when I lift my foot, like it's questioning whether I should go any further. Band posters wallpaper the walls, some curling at the edges, some so faded they're practically ghosts of what they used to be.

The smell here is a cocktail of odors—stale beer, sweat, cigarette smoke, and an underlying tang of metal, like blood. Is that my imagination? No, it can't be; my blood sense isn't picking up anything but the usual random signals. Still, it feels eerie. Jamila leads me by the hand down a set of low concrete stairs, tucked away in the corner - I'm not sure if they're even part of the building, or if the building just sort of… grew around them with further additions.

Compared to the chaos above, the basement is practically barren. A narrow, dimly lit stretch of space with a low ceiling that makes me wonder how Jamila's brothers and their bandmates are going to avoid knocking their heads on something. The band is just setting up—guitars, drums, amps, all looking like relics that have seen better days. It's as if everyone upstairs is too wrapped up in their drinks and conversations to realize that the real event is down here.

I feel out of place, like I've wandered into some secluded, secret society meeting and the demon summoning ritual is about to begin. It's a gathering of die-hards, people who are here for the music, not just the social spectacle. They've got a different energy, simmering, like they're in on a secret that the crowd upstairs isn't privy to. Me? I feel like a shark that accidentally swam into a cave and found it full of electric eels—fascinating but potentially dangerous.

Jamila seems to be in her element, though. She's chatting away with people she knows, introducing me as her friend Sam. "Friend" is such a weird word. We're more than that, but I guess it's still new, so new it hasn't even really had time to sink in. And this isn't really the time or place to explore those feelings, because we're here for her brothers' band, "Demon Core."

I take a deep breath, trying to get comfortable in the surroundings. My fingers tap against the side of my leg, not really to any beat, just because they want to move. They always want to move. Jamila's off getting drinks, and I'm leaning against a table that wobbles if I put too much weight on it. The dim lighting in the room casts weird shadows on the floor, and as the place fills up, people begin bumping into me.

One thing's for sure, though. I'm out of my comfort zone. And I don't know if that's good or bad. But I'm here for Jamila. And if this is the kind of place she likes, then maybe it's the kind of place I could like too. Maybe.

I just wish it were a little less… whatever this is. Because right now, all the weird smells and the noise and the people—it's a lot. I'm trying to not get overwhelmed, but I've got this gnawing feeling in my gut, and it's not just because I haven't eaten yet. It's something else, something I can't quite put my finger on. Like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Jamila comes back, handing me a soda. "You okay?" she asks, looking at me like she can see right through all my layers of "I'm fine."

"Yeah," I answer. "Just taking it all in." And I am. I'm taking it all in, the good, the bad, the absolutely bizarre, because this is part of Jamila's world, and I want to understand it. Even if it scares the shit out of me.

So I stand there, soda in hand, trying to acclimate to this strange new environment like it's some kind of deep-sea trench and I'm the new species trying to survive. And who knows, maybe by the end of the night, I'll have adapted enough to call this place, this strange, weird, terrifying place, a part of my world too.

Jamila leads me by the hand up to the front of the stage, where her brothers (I assume) are busy setting up. I'm not exactly sure what soda I have. It definitely doesn't taste like alcohol, though. I realize as she's getting their attention that I haven't actually given a ticket to anyone.

We end up at the front, right by the stage platform. Jamila shouts something in my ear, but it’s drowned out by someone testing the mic with an ear-piercing screech. I can see her lips moving, forming words, "These are my brothers," and she's pointing to each guy on stage, fiddling with instruments and sound equipment.

"Ahmed, Tariq, Ibrahim—guys, this is Sam. Sam, these are my brothers, Ahmed, Tariq, Ibrahim. Oh, and Uncle Nasir over there on the drums." I wave awkwardly, not sure if they can even hear or see me over the chaos. But Ahmed, the one with a buzzcut and a big bushy mustache, notices and waves back.

"Hey there, Sam! Nice to meet you. You're the girl my sister won't shut up about, huh?" Ahmed shouts, strumming a quick riff on his guitar.

"You talk about me? Like, outside of, you know, our stuff?" I ask Jamila.

She looks at me and winks. I feel a shiver run through my entire body and my face goes beet red.

Tariq, bald and all smiles, joins in. "Oh, so you're the mystery girl. We were starting to think you were just a figment of Jamila's imagination."

I roll my eyes. "Nope, real as it gets."

Jamila laughs, her hand still wrapped around mine. "See, I told you she's awesome."

Ibrahim, who has a curtain of long hair and a lot of piercings, gives a small nod while fiddling with a rack of pedals. It’s like he's got his own little tech command center back there. I try to read what the buttons say, but I’m lost. They all look like they've been welded together, and have single word orders etched into them, "FALL", "SCREAM", "VIOLENCE", "PUSH BUTTON" - okay, that one's two words.

"Is he the silent type?" I ask Jamila, trying to shout in her ear.

She nods, shouting back, "Yeah, but wait till you hear him play!"

Uncle Nasir, big like a weightlifter and bubbling with energy, swings his drumstick in a wave, "Hope you're ready for this, Sam!"

"Ready as I'll ever be," I reply. To be honest, I’m not even sure what I’m ready for.

"So what's your music like?" I manage to ask, really pushing my vocal cords to overcome the ambient noise.

Ahmed takes this one, "Think of us as a poor man's System of a Down!"

I make a face. "Uh, sure, if I knew who that was."

Jamila giggles. "Don't worry about it. Just get ready to have your mind blown."

Ahmed goes back to his guitar, Tariq steps up to the mic, Ibrahim resumes his place behind the fortress of pedals, and Nasir takes his seat at the drums. They start doing a sound check, and even that’s loud enough to vibrate through my entire body. My heart’s thumping hard, like it’s trying to escape from my ribcage or something. And I realize, as I watch them all get in sync, each in their own world but part of something bigger, that this is Jamila's family, her world.

And she’s brought me into it.

"So, this is what a metal concert looks like, huh?" I try to smile at Jamila. She looks thrilled, her eyes shining in a way that makes me want to be part of this world, even just for tonight. Her hijab is snug around her face, a pattern of deep reds and blacks that somehow seems perfectly in place in this underground cavern of noise.

"Yep! Isn't it awesome?" She beams, her hands dancing in the air, mimicking the beat of the background music that's playing as the crowd waits for the main act. "My brothers are gonna kill it tonight."

She's so into this, and I can't help but want to be into it too, for her. Still, I'm a fish out of water—no pun intended. These aren't my people, this isn't my scene, and yet… here I am. Trying to make it mine, at least for a little bit. Because of Jamila. I fold my thumb under my palm, then unfold it again. Maybe I should keep it folded.

The basement fills up even more. How many people can even fit in this place? Fire hazard much? But nobody seems to care. They're all here for the same reason, lost in anticipation, a pulsing mass of black t-shirts and band logos I don't recognize. I can feel the vibrations of bass tests through the soles of my shoes, like the growling of some dormant beast.

A man next to us starts headbanging to no music in particular. He's so into it that I'm afraid his head might actually detach. That would be messy. I've seen enough blood for one lifetime. My fingers tap involuntarily on my thigh again. Jamila catches it and takes my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"You okay, Sam?" she asks, leaning closer so I can hear her over the ever-growing noise.

"Yeah," I lie. I mean, it's not a total lie. "Just new to this whole thing, you know? But I'm excited to see your brothers perform."

"I promise, it's an experience," she says, and I believe her. Because she makes everything feel like an experience. Like something worth diving into, even if you don't know how to swim. And that's kind of amazing, even if it's terrifying.

An emcee or something—I can't tell, he's just another bearded guy with a microphone—announces that the band will be out in five minutes. The crowd roars, and I jump, not expecting the volume. It's like a wave, crashing over everyone and leaving us soaked in sheer, unadulterated enthusiasm.

Jamila's face lights up, and she squeezes my hand again, tighter this time, like she's anchoring herself to the Earth, or maybe she's anchoring me. We're both grinning like idiots, even though for entirely different reasons. Hers is pure excitement, mine is a cocktail of anxiety, affection, and the overwhelming urge to be part of whatever makes her so happy.

It's a long five minutes. People keep shifting, bumping, jostling like hyper atoms, and I can almost hear the clock ticking in my head, each second stretching just a bit longer than the last. My thumb folds and unfolds under my palm, restless.

And then the lights dim.

The walls of the basement bar vibrate as the first notes rip through the air, and it's like, holy crap, where did this come from? Demon Core takes the stage, and the crowd — this screaming mass of humanity — goes absolutely ballistic. The air gets thick, heavy with sweat and excitement, and I'm pretty sure the room's temperature spikes up five degrees just because of the collective body heat.

Rivers once flowed, life was sustained

(Dead! And! Buried!)

Now deserts reclaim, what was the cradle

(Burn it down, tear it apart!)

Jamila's hand is wrapped around mine, our fingers interlaced, and I can feel her energy surging through me. Not like, superpower energy, but that excitement, the feeling that she's exactly where she wants to be. It pulls at me, tugs me closer to the churning whirlpool that is the swirling mass up front. I can't tell if it's her doing the pulling, or if the crowd itself is dragging us in like we're caught in a rip current.

The statues of kings, the temples of gods

(Effigies of deceit!)

Melt in the sun, as if they never were

(Erase the past!)

And the music. Oh God, the music. It's not like anything I've ever heard before. My dad used to play his stuff around the house — Deftones, Linkin Park, that kind of thing — but this? This is a whole different animal. Like, imagine taking all those bands and then tossing them into a blender with a handful of jagged rocks and then setting that blender on fire. That's what Demon Core sounds like. The guitars screech, the drums are a thundering storm, and the vocals are raw screams that you can feel in your bones. It's jarring, unsettling, it rattles my entire body.

War rages on, like a storm without end

(Bullets replace words!)

Invasions and drones, false liberators

(Imperial lies!)

Tariq stands in a power pose, his fingers gliding over the frets as if they're an extension of himself. He belts out these long, prayer-like verses that reverberate in my chest, encompassing the entire range of possible notes, top to bottom, six strings going deeper than I imagined basses could go. Ahmed and Nasir alternate between growling and screaming. They're like wild animals, the sound primal and untamed. The crowd loves it, their energy ramping up with each passing second, like they're feeding off the sonic chaos.

The scrolls and the texts, the wisdom of ancients

(Forgotten, lost!)

Up in smoke and dust, with every blast

(Annihilation!)

Jamila? She's lost in it, swaying and jumping, headbanging to the beat. Her eyes are closed, and she looks so free, so in her element, and I love seeing her like this. But then I start to worry. What if her hijab comes undone with all the vigorous movement? I mean, it’s one thing for a random jerk in the crowd to mess with it, but for it to come undone on its own? But then I see the bobby pins and safety pins holding the cloth securely in place, and nightmare visions end. It’s not going anywhere.

(Ashes!)

(Ashes!)

(Ashes!)

(Ashes!)

I’m paralyzed but not in the 'oh crap, I can’t move' sort of way. It’s overstimulation to the max. The crowd, the music, the screaming, the loudness—it’s all so intense, crashing into me in waves, and I don't know if I'm enjoying it or hating it.

(Ashes!)

(Ashes!)

(Ashes!)

(Ashes!)

The last note of whatever-the-song-is-called hits like a hammer on an anvil, and just when I think maybe, just maybe, I'm getting the hang of this head-bobbing, foot-tapping metal scene, everything goes haywire. Like, the song goes into a weird slow-down, but also not? And the crowd goes absolutely insane. They're like synchronized swimmers in a pool of chaos, jumping up and down, and everything's pounding and thumping and holy shit, what is even happening?

I press myself against one of the concrete walls, as far from the human earthquake as I can get. I let go of Jamila's hand for just a millisecond, regretting it instantly because what if I lose her in this mess? But then I grab onto her other hand, sort of like a lifeline. Don't want to drift away and get swallowed up by this crazy sea of people, after all.

Jamila smiles at me, her face all sweaty but glowing, looking like she just had the time of her life. She's clearly into this, and that makes one of us. But then I have this… Moment. With a capital 'M'. I look at her, and I realize that despite the pounding eardrums, despite the unfamiliarity, despite the slightly uncomfortable tingling in my limbs from all the jumping and pushing, I'm sorta kinda happy. Because she's happy.

Ahmed grabs his mic like he's choking it, like he's killing a phantom person, and screams out in a voice that's positively inhuman. "This next song's called Nuke 'Em All!" he snarls.

Then, he starts screaming.

Push the button, fire's free,

Commanders grin from ear to ear.

No remorse, no empathy,

Only death rains from the sky.

(Fuck 'em all to death, and go let God sort out the rest!)