Page 46 of Sustain

Ian

I gulp the dregs of my third coffee, breath pluming, and scan the bustling grounds. After all of the prolonged delays from the blizzard, the festival’s chaotic revival reflects my own. We’re all just holding disaster at bay by the skin of our teeth.

My phone blares for the dozenth time with another urgent text and I make a beeline towards the stage, taking in the frazzled crews scrambling to get things ready in time. There’s been nothing but fuck up after fuck up all morning, and we’re starting to cut it real close to when the venue opens for the festival. It’s not giving me the warm fuzzies that this is going to go smoothly.

“Hey! Someone cut power over there before we get fried!” The stage manager bellows from the lighting booth, frantically trying to figure out the malfunction’s origin.

I jump in to help yank cords, isolating the issue as Vickie, the backline manager for the local promoter, barrels up to me wheezing. “Serious problems back here too. The backup generator just crapped out on us.” Her eyes bulge dramatically. “Half of your speakers just went dark.”

“Please tell me we have a backup for the backup?” Though it’s not really a question. I can tell already by the look on her face that I won’t like the answer.

I swipe both hands down my face, my adrenaline reserves nearly depleted going against this ultimate trial by fire. Of course, the brutal temperatures would corrode parts never designed for the Siberian levels we’re having through today’s deceptively mild glare.

“Vickie, tell the techs to yank every non-critical component to check circuits for corrosion or cracks,” I order, pulling myself together as my mind whirls through backup options. I need to think fast, and some ancient muscle memory kicks back to life from my playing days when things often went wrong. “It might not be the generator. It’s still daylight. We can go without the fancy lighting if necessary. I’ll check if the other bands’ kits have spare amps or power we can borrow in the meantime.”

We split to handle damage control when I spot Mackenzie maneuvering slowly nearby, the walkie-talkie chatter blaring similar meltdowns with her stage. Part of me itches to swoop in and solve her crises too, but she’s in careful command of her coordinating crews. My jumping in unasked would only undermine her authority.

I refocus on scouting amplifier options, jaw clenched. The best support I can offer is ensuring Chaos Fuel holds up our festival end without being an additional burden to anyone else. If I can somehow wrangle this mounting madness, perhaps the trial by fire will prove to me that I can do this job.

After extensive amp negotiations, I track Mackenzie down again to give status updates. She stands leaning against a stack of crates, radio held up with a frown as she massages her thigh. My breath catches a little seeing the exhaustion starting to pull at her.

“How’s it looking over here?” I ask.

She jumps slightly, then flashes a grateful smile when recognizing me. “Oh, from minute to minute I couldn’t say for sure. But somehow things are staying tits up just enough to keep things interesting.”

“Tits up, huh?” I chuckle, forcing my dirty thoughts at bay. “Don’t tell me the language of my homeland is rubbing off on you.”

“We can be crude here, too, you know.”

I feign an unrecognizable accent, “Oh, it’s just so…how do you say in your country…vulgar?”

She lets out an outburst of a laugh, and humor glimmers through the clear strain in her gorgeous eyes. I have to hamper the impulse to wrap protective arms around her, irked to see the pain she’s trying to hide beneath the surface. She’s hurting, and it kills me.

“What can I do to help?” I nod to where her fingers are attempting to knead the tightened muscles through her brace. “Do you need a hot compress or something to get you through the last mile here? Do you have your pain medicine with you?”

“No. I’m fine, really.” Mackenzie attempts to wave off my concern, but her fatigue slips through.

Not liking her struggling alone, I catch her hand, brushing her delicate knuckles. “You know all you have to do is ask, and if I can help in any way, just say the word...”

Her eyes flutter shut briefly, leaning into the support of my palm almost imperceptibly before catching herself. My thumb traces circles on the back of her hand longingly where onlookers can’t see. She rallies with a rueful squeeze of my own hand.

“Careful Mr. Summer. Any more chivalry from you and rumors of you and me will spread through this festival like wildfire, if they aren’t already.” Her smile dimples up at me, erasing her pain momentarily. I trace the faint lines crinkling thecorners of her eyes, my pulse stuttering, happily stalled in this oasis between the catastrophes raging around us.

The radio at her hip erupts with fresh demands. I watch her steel spine straighten, the staunch leader facade sliding back into place as she returns to the anarchy. But I also notice, beneath the projections of tireless strength, real exhaustion shadows her now. And I’m afraid what toll this unrelenting pace that she refuses to share will take on her. It can’t be good.

My hands flex helplessly as I watch her turn away to respond to the chatter, wanting to offer stability she’s too proud to accept from me openly.

My hero status with Mackenzie is over, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

I shake myself from longing when Vickie jogs up to me again. “Ian, we got bigger fish frying now. Border patrol apparently detained our foreign pyrotechnic artist who never showed up due to problems with their work visa. We need a backup plan.”

Tits up is right.

thirty-one

. . .

Victorious

---