Johnny Grady

Backstory

  The day I won that fiddle, Johnny thought, was the day everything started to go wrong.   He stared at his musket. With the hammer snapped, it might as well be a club. There were no bird songs or cricket calls that night to mask the moans and shuffles of the zombies that surrounded his platoon. The sergeant and the corporal muttered quietly, trying to map out whether they had hours, or just minutes before the zombies tore them apart. Some men prayed. Others drank their final toast.   Quietly, Johnny pulled out the Golden Fiddle from the bottom of his pack. It looked just as lustrous, just as perfect as the day he won it from that old devil. Just as perfect as the day he played it and realized he could make anybody dance, for as long as he wanted. Just as perfect as the day he took that too far.   After that day, he swore off fiddling, and left the little farm he loved so much, and the town he danced to death. The army didn't ask any questions, they just saw his quick hands, quiet feet, and short stature, handed him a musket and sent him out on patrol. And no matter how many times he took that Golden Fiddle and tossed it in a creek, smashed it, sold it, or even burned it, it would always wind up in his pack, just as lustrous, just as perfect.   As he cradled the violin, inspiration struck. He unwound the E string and quickly tied the broken hammer and Flint back together. He hefted the gun, checking his handiwork when the first zombie crashed through the Underground. He turned and fired, realizing too late that he never loaded the gun.   A bolt of dark energy shot out of the muzzle, striking the zombie in the chest, and as Johnny ran, another thought jumped unbidden into his mind. This time, he recognized the old devil's voice: well sonny, our deal ain't quite done yet. Let's get you out of here.