SIXTEEN
Several canvasmen and roughnecks came at them when the group had walked to the center of the midway. Had the circumstances been just a bit differentâand also the God they worshippedâthe creatures might have been pitiful things, for some were caught between human and demon transformation, unable to fully attain either.
The music-filled air and the dancing midway erupted in gunfire. The canvasmen and roughnecks were stopped in mid-charge, dropping to the already blood-soaked and body-littered sawdust.
The dancers did not even look up from their 1950s-style gyrations. But Martin had noticed that the number of dancers had lessened, and hoped that those left were not yet fully under the rule of the Master of the Netherworld, but just caught up in something they didn't understandâand could be saved.
He didn't have long to think about that.
The front of the Crazy House went wild in an explosion of flickering lights and loud music.
“I think that's our cue, Martin?” Frenchy shouted over the din.
Martin cut his eyes.
“Our
cue?”
“We're together, baby,” she told him. “Get used to the idea.”
And there, standing in the midst of danger and the stink of bodies and blood, Martin knew he had found what most men only dream of.
He winked at her.
She returned the wink, screwing up one whole side of her face. “Let's do it, Martin!”
Alicia appeared on the bally deck, her face a mixture of beauty and beast. She screamed at him. “Oh, yes, Martin! Come to baby, Martin!” Her voice changed to an inhuman howling, her mouth open wide, exposing long fangs.
Martin lifted his Colt and sighted her in. Images flashed behind his eyes. Their honeymoon. Their lovemaking. Their years together. The birth of their children.
Alicia's howling intensified. Green slime dripped from her mouth.
The memories were gone.
Martin shot her between the breasts. Pulled the trigger again, the muzzle lifting from the blast, the slug taking her in the throat. He fired again, just as she was falling backward.
Alicia dropped to the wooden bally floor and lay still, forever trapped between human and demon form. If she ever did any more of Shakespeare's lines it would be to a french fried audience. At least that was Martin's silent prayer.
Frenchy's .357 barked and a young man went down, a homemade spear in his hand. The face was human; the hands were clawed and hairy.
“You fiend!” a man's voice screamed from the ground corner of the Crazy House. “You hideous fiend!”
Mike Hanson. His face, as Alicia's, was caught between worlds. Mark's crossbow thunked. The bolt slammed through Mike's neck, pinning him to the wooden bally stage. His legs kicked and jerked as one hand tried in vain to remove the bolt.
Mike drifted on into the Netherworld, dutifully mincing after his sweetie.
Martin and Frenchy looked up the midway. Lyle Steele was running just as hard as he could, a pack of snarling animals close on his boot heels.
Martin stuck out a foot and tripped the man. He rolled and came to a sliding halt by the merry-go-ground. He scrambled onto the ride and grabbed onto a wooden horse.
Martin and Frenchy stared as the wooden horse turned its head and smiled at the animals that circled the ride.
The merry-go-round began to revolve. The wooden horse threw back its head and whinnied happily. Faster and faster the ride revolved. Lyle had managed to climb into the saddle of the wooden horse, his boots almost dragging the floor. He was screaming his fear as the horse went up and down on the pole, around and around, faster and faster.
“Ride 'em, cowboy!” Dick yelled from the edge of the midway.
Lyle howled his fear.
The man was almost a blur as the merry-go-round revolved at an impossible rate of speed.
The animals watched with undisguised glee in their eyes.
Lyle lost his grip on the wooden horse's neck and was propelled through the gaily lighted night air at what seemed mach-one speed.
He crashed into a light pole, arms and legs spread wide in an obscene embrace of body against pole.
The animals moved on, seeking others who had harmed them.
“Loose the stock!” Nabo's voice screamed from the loudspeakers. “Turn the tigers on them.”
Roughnecks ran to the cages and threw open the barred gates.
But the animals would not leave their cages. They were savoring these moments.
An ape reached out and tore a carnie's head from its shoulders.
Nabo screamed his outrage at this betrayal.
Tiny the Giant lumbered onto the midway, heading for Martin and Frenchy. A howl turned him around.
JoJo stood in the midway. “You will not harm them,” he spoke calmly. His ape-like face almost serene.
Frenchy lifted her pistol. Martin pushed the muzzle down. “No. JoJo wants him.”
With a howl of pure hate, the giant lurched toward the Ape Man. JoJo gracefully sidestepped the charge and tripped the giant, sending him sprawling facedown in the bloody sawdust. He leaped onto his back and began beating the man with his big fists. He looked up only once to call to Martin. “Go! The Crazy House. Go. But be careful!” He then resumed beating the giant into death. Again.
Martin and Frenchy stepped up to the wooden walkway leading into the big tent. They walked up the steps, pushing aside the canvas flap, and stepped into the madness.
* * *
King suddenly lifted his head, a hissing sound coming from his mouth. Gary and Rich were sleeping soundly.
“I hear her, pretty,” Balo's words soothed the python. “Stay with the child.” She slipped through the closed door of the van and stepped out into the night to face the woman with a face of a monster. “They shall not be harmed, Colleen.”
Dr. Rhodes' wife opened her mouth to howl. Balo stepped into the woman, enveloping her in a sparkling mist.
Total evil was enveloped in good. King slithered up and watched as his friend turned the enraged demon around and sent her back to the pits, silently howling as sparkling bits of her being flew out of the envelopment and exploded without sound in the darkness.
The snake watched for a time and then once more coiled up on the seat. King would have handled it differently; would have made it last longer and with much pain. But . . . to each their own, he supposed.
He listened to the children's untroubled breathing and found comfort in the innocence of the boys.
* * *
“You want me to drive through those gates and put us inside the fairgrounds, Gene?” Mayfield asked.
“No, sir. I sure do not.”
Neither one of them heard the man and woman walk up to the side of the car; the same man and woman they had encountered when first entering the town. When the man's voice came out of the night, Gene Davidson almost fainted.
“We're going home now,” the man said. “The prom is almost over.”
“Where did you come from?” Davidson hollered, turning his head.
Both cops looked at the odd couple who were splattered with blood.
“Yes,” the woman added. “The dance floor is filled with rowdies. Those pooty types always come along to mess up everything. Good night, boys.”
They walked off into the night. The cops sat and watched as more couples began walking out of the fairgrounds, passing the patrol car, holding hands and chatting.
“I sure am glad you're here, Captain,” Gene informed the man.
“Oh? Why is that?”
“'Cause you get to write the report.”
* * *
Whatever Martin and Frenchy expected as they entered the Crazy House ... the sight that greeted them certainly wasn't it.
The placed was filled with cobwebs. Banners and streamers hung in tattered rags from the ceiling and the walls. A clown suit hung from a hook. The place looked as though it had not been used in years.
About thirty-five years, the thought came to Martin.
Both turned around as footsteps echoed hollow on the old creaking wooden floor. They expected to see the rest of their group.
They got Nabo.
The man stood smiling at them.
“It's been interesting, Mr. Mayor.”
“That's one way of putting it,” Martin replied. He was so tired he knew he could not last much longer. He had to get this done. He wondered where Linda was?
* * *
Mayfield and Davidson watched as the teenager ran out of the fairgrounds and up to the patrol car. “Please!” she panted the word. “You've got to help me. Everybody's gone nuts in there!” She pointed to the lighted midway. “Dead people all over the place.”
The cops got out of the car, to stand beside the badly frightened girl. “Take it easy, Miss,” Mayfield told her. “You're all right, now.” He opened the back door and motioned for the girl to get in. “Tell us what happened.”
She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. Both men could see she was exhausted and badly frightened. “You're not going to believe me.”
“Miss,” Davidson said, “after tonight, I'll believe anything? What's your name?”
* * *
“Do it, Mr. Mayor,” Nabo urged.
“Do ... what?”
“End it. You've disgraced me. Humiliated me.” He looked at the confused expression on Martin's face and grimaced. “You've
won!”
The wooden floor shook as the rest of Martin's group entered the Crazy House. “The place just calmed down, Martin,” Dick announced. “Carnival people just standing around, looking scared and confused.”
“I figure maybe six or seven hundred people walked out of the fairgrounds,” Audie said. “Must be several hundred dead.”
A leather-like hand began slowly making its way up the steps of the Crazy House, the fingers gripping the step above and pulling up, carefully. It reached the bally deck and scurried across, slipping into the gloom of the big tent.
Martin counted heads. One more was missing. “Where's Don?”
“He spotted Joyce running away,” Jeanne said. Her voice sounded very tired. “He went after her.”
“To kill her,” Susan added.
“Silly boy!” Nabo shook his head. “By now, she's at her house, sleeping in her bed. She ... well ... if he kills her, the charge will be murder.”
“You lied before,” Martin reminded him. “Every time you've opened your mouth, as a matter of fact. Why should we believe you now?”
“Well . . . that's a good point. But I have no reason to lie now. I am defeated. My troops are finished. Oh, they'll regroup ... maybe. But without me.”
“And they'll ... be back?” Frenchy asked.
“They'll return somewhere. Oh. Here?” He smiled. “Perhaps. It's something to think about, isn't it?”
Chief Kelson waited in the darkness by the canvas wall, a pistol in his hand. He had his orders, and he was, by all that was unholy, going to carry them out. He was going to kill Martin Holland. That was his single thought.
Something tapped on the toe of his boot. He looked down. Nothing. Must have imagined it. He waited for the signal from Nabo. Something moved behind him. He turned his head. Canvas was moving. Big rat, he figured. Something tapped him on the shoulder. Really annoyed him. He turned fully around in time to feel old bony fingers clamp onto his throat. He dropped the pistol and lifted both hands, grabbing the object that was cutting off his air. He tried to pull it free, staggering backward, fighting for air.
“Well, now!” Nabo said, his voice filled with disgust. “Of all the places I could have gone, I had to come back here. To a town filled with incompetent jerks.” He walked over to Kelson and put his shoe on the man's backside. He gave him a shove and sent the chief tearing out the rotten old canvas to the ground below. Kelson drummed his heels against the ground as death took him. The hand remained clamped around his crushed throat.
Nabo walked back to face the group. He stared at Martin. “Do it, Mr. Mayor. Put your burning eyes on me and end this night.”
Martin stood, returning the stare. Then he slowly began to smile.
“What are you smiling about!” Nabo shouted. “There is nothing amusing about this! I demand that you kill me. That is my right. That is my wish. I command you to kill me!”
“No,” Martin told him.
“No?
You can't do this to me!”
“Why not, Nabo?”
“It's ... it's ... not a gentlemanly act. There are rules you must follow. You can't do this to me! I will not tolerate this ... this indignity!”
Martin walked to the man and slapped him, the heavy blow knocking the man down onto the dusty floor. Nabo lay on the floor and cursed. But he made no attempt to rise. A thin trickle of blood leaked from the corner of Nabo's mouth.
“Martin? ...” Frenchy whispered.
Martin held up a hand, silencing her. “Audie, you and Nicole go head off Don. Stop him. Move.”
The deputy and the city cop left the tent. Martin squatted down beside Nabo. He pinched the man hard on the arm.
“Owww!” Naboshrieked.
Martin stood up just as Mayfield and Davidson stepped into the room, automatic weapons at the ready.
“Frenchy,” Martin said. “I want you to arrest this . . . person.” He looked at Nabo, cowering on the dirty floor. Nabo cursed him and spit at him. “There must be a hundred different charges you can bring on him. Everything from inciting a riot to operating a carnival without a license.”
“Curse your soul, Holland!” Nabo screamed. “You can't do this to me.”
“I've done it, Nabo.”