by Jim LaVigne
Confused, with a terrible dread churning in his guts, Justin turned back to see that Johnson was now standing before one of the pole-shackled prisoners, a middle-aged woman in camo pants and a green T shirt. Moving slowly, almost sinuously, he waved the wicked knife before his own face as the poor, wide-eyed woman thrashed and grunted against her restraints and the deformed throng clapped and gurgled like mad.
Almost involuntarily, Justin tried to get up from his chair and intervene, but strong, eel-like arms thrust him back down. He was going to shout something in protest, but doubted that he’d be heard over the celebratory din, or heeded if he was. Frantic, he looked to the Old Man, who was watching, mouth agape, and pleaded.
“Mr. Lampert, please,” he said feelingly. “If you can, you have to do something! Don’t let him do this!”
“Yeah, guess yer right,” said Lampert, nodding. Shakily, he levered himself up from his seat and, unimpeded by the freaks, walked over to the madman and his victim. Sweating, his breath coming in gasps, Justin watched.
“Hey, kid!” said Lampert, getting King Suit’s attention. The man paused from his bizarre dance and looked at the Old Man. The woman tied to the post stopped struggling and also watched. Casually, Lampert took out a cigarette, lit it, and used it for emphasis as he spoke.
“Whatcha doin’, here?” he asked. “What kinda party game is this?”
“Oh, it’s not a game, Grandpa,” smiled Johnson strangely. “That’s for later! These are my Birthday Presents! And since it’s my birthday and since I get to decide and since they’re such lovely presents, I just have to open them! Hee hee! Open them up, see what’s inside!”
“Jeez, I dunno, kid,” said Lampert reasonably. “Ain’t that gonna make a helluva mess? I mean, all that packing and wrappings and ribbons and all? Gonna get all over the place, ain’t it? You don’t want some big mess, doya?”
King Suit seemed to think about it, but it was hard to tell; maybe he was just zoning out again. But then he looked at Lampert, refocused, and grinned horribly.
“Don’t worry, Grandpa,” he said. “My friends will clean it up! They always like to help!”
With that, the madman raised and then slashed the knife across the captive woman’s exposed throat. Justin cringed and looked away, vaguely seeing the shocked faces of his companions as the chamber swam in his vision, but even over the hoots and clapping he could hear the appalling sound of splashing liquid. And then chopping, hacking noises, accompanied by savage screams of insane laughter from Johnson.
Feeling as though he might faint, throw up, or go stark raving mad (maybe all three), Justin saw that his companions were just as horrified. Cass was very pale, holding one hand over her mouth, and Erin was actually puking, doubled over in her seat. Teresa just looked angry. Very, very angry.
Not at all wanting to, Justin turned and looked back at the horrible scene. Ignored, Mr. Lampert had taken a seat among the freaks nearby, his chin disconsolately on his chest. The madman Johnson was now kneeling before the flayed, eviscerated, chopped-up corpse of the woman, scooping up little puddles of blood and wiping them on his face. In the harsh light, the hallucinatory decorations, and the assembled, jeering throng of misshapen beasts, it was a tableau straight out of Hell.
Justin felt gorge rise in his throat and a nightmarish dread at the sheer savagery of the murder. This man wasn’t just dangerous, he was absolutely lethal. And if he was capable of this, what might he do next? Surely he’d get around to “opening” Justin and the others soon enough. Again, bile rose in his throat but he swallowed hard and kept it down.
The world itself, or at least Justin’s part in it, suddenly teetered on its access and threatened to spin off into the void. Despair, a sense that nothing in the whole world meant anything anymore, a crushing realization of life’s futility and its gross, animal nature washed over him like a flow of lava. What kind of world were they living in? What had become of Humanity? Was this the fate of their species, degeneration to madness and murder? To pray on each other, to see each other as objects, to be used, expended, at the whim of the insane and the powerful? And if this was the fate of humanity, did he want any part in it? Or any part in saving it? Maybe Mr. Lampert wasn’t so wrong after all. Maybe, if this was its destiny, humanity did deserve to die off. Maybe, if all that was left were madmen and violent predators, extinction wasn’t such a terrible thing.
After all, what had they encountered, merely trying to get from one place to another, here in the world of After? What had become of the people who’d survived? Where they all destined to become evangelical cannibals, homicidal maniacs, and brutal, casually violent thugs, killing and enslaving each other? And more to the point, did a butt-end, ignorant, violent, self-consuming remnant of a species such as this really deserve to live? Maybe they should all just give up and join Johnson, take their places in the Dance of Death and bathe in the blood of their fellow man. Just give up, jump onto the funeral pyre, and put an end to all of the pain and struggle and madness. It would be a lot easier.
But then, for no obvious reason, the face of Baron Zero loomed up in his mind’s eye. Fuzzy, smiling, bespectacled, honest, friendly and sharply intelligent, the image somehow made him feel a little bit better. Maybe if there was one such leader, one such light in the darkness, there were others. Maybe there was still a spark of humanity after all. Maybe there were some who didn’t want to dance. Grimly, like a wrestler facing a stronger opponent, he took control of his thoughts and emotions as best he could and tried to pay attention to what was happening.
“Holy shit, Doc,” came the Old Man’s voice. He’d tottered back to the head table and now, pale and shaking, spoke past the big tentacle-armed guard. “This motherfucker is out there! What the fuck are we gonna do? Shit, even I don’t wanna get carved up by this nut job down here in this fucking stinking hole! We gotta do something!”
“I’m,” Justin swallowed, “uh, open to suggestions.”
“Rush him, I say,” said Teresa darkly. “Get my hands on his neck.”
Justin shook his head. “No,” he said, feeling almost disembodied. “Don’t do that. These people would have you in a second.”
“Then what?” said Lampert. For the first time Justin could recall, there was real fear in the Old Man’s reedy voice. “What are we gonna do?”
Justin tried to think, but his mind was like a bicycle on an icy street and he couldn’t get any traction. What should they do? Tangentially, he saw that Erin was done throwing up and was now sitting, blank-faced and empty-eyed like a catatonic and that Barb Cass had lowered her head to the table as if she was taking a little nap. What should they do?
Then Teresa grabbed his arm, fairly painfully, and snapped him back to reality.
“Hey!” she whispered urgently. “Over there, behin’ that pole!”
“What?” said Justin, utterly lost. “What are you talking about?”
“That kid!” she said, staring at something over Justin’s shoulder. He was about to turn around to see what she was blathering about—what kid?—when she jerked him back. “No, don’t look,” she said. “You give him away.”
“What,” Justin managed, tires spinning on the ice. “Who?”
“She’s right, Doc!” said the Old Man, looking in the same direction. “I mean, I never met this Kid of yours, but it’s either that or one scrunty-ass little mutant.”
Something like understanding came to Justin; one of his tires hit a dry spot. The Kid. Yes, the little boy they’d come here with. Of course, how could he forget? But he’d disappeared, gone away. What was he doing here? He very much wanted to turn and see what was happening, but Teresa held him in place with her eyes.
“What’s going on?” he hissed.
Teresa, staring intently, whispered back: “OK, he like, mixed in with the freaks. Wearin’ a doopy hat an’ that. Like a dis-guise, hey?”
“Yes, yes?” prodded Justin, both wheels suddenly taking purchase. “And what’s he doing?”
�
�Dunno,” said Teresa, frowning. “He, like, gettin’ up behind one’a them poles. One with some greep tied to it, hey? Some little dude with a shave head.”
“What about Johnson?” Justin asked. “And the others? If they notice the Kid…”
“They ain’t gleeped ‘im yet,” Teresa muttered. “Lucky.”
“Shifty little bastard,” said Lampert, “ain’t he?”
Justin ignored him. “What’s he doing?” he demanded.
“He’s…” Lampert began, but then stopped abruptly and gaped in wonder. There was suddenly a similar look of shock on Teresa’s face and it was obvious that something dramatic was happening.
Snapping around and sorting through the crush of malformed bodies and party decorations, Justin was just in time to see the Kid, improbably festooned in a sparkly party hat and bright orange lei, make his move. With a motion almost too quick to see, the child, a slice of something bright in one hand, lunged at the tethers around the wrists of one of the pinioned victims. This individual, the small bald man, immediately reacted by whipping down his arms and then wading into the surrounding misshapen, startled throng like a little cyclone of fists and feet. In a matter of seconds, three of the freaks were down, bleeding, punched and kicked to the ground.
Meanwhile, moving like a snake, the Kid went down the row of poles and freed the other intended victims. In matter of seconds, the entire chamber was chaos as the freaks, screaming and hooting, clambered over each other to attack the freed victims while the freed victims, to a varying degree, fought back with all they had.
At his side, Teresa suddenly gave a savage whoop, ripped the silly cowboy hat from her head, and erupted from her chair. Startled, unsure, the big tentacle-men who’d been guarding them were caught off guard and she easily ducked past them when they tried to grab her. Then, much like the Small Man, she disappeared into the horde, fists and feet and knees pumping like well-oiled pistons, leaving prostrate enemies in her wake.
“Holy fuck!” barked the Old Man, one hand going to his forehead. “Lookit her go!”
Justin looked over to Lampert and saw that his own guard, a particularly repulsive, smelly creature with five ropy arms, had run off to join the fight. He was wondering what to do with this sudden liberty when a bottle, flung by one of the combatants, came whipping through the air, missing the Old Man’s head by about an inch, and shattered into a thousand glittering pieces.
“Get down!” said Justin, and dragged the Old Man to the floor. He did the same with Cass and Swails and then pulled everyone under the table. Around them, the deformed masses put up a terrible noise and commotion, screeching and bellowing like a zoo full of starved animals and overturning tables and chairs.
Through the crush of bodies and upended furniture, Justin could now see that the fight had devolved into a sort of standoff. On one side were the small bald man—their erstwhile kidnapper—another short, stocky Hispanic man, plus two others and Teresa, and on the other were a momentarily cowed horde of flailing, shrieking monsters, King Suit at their fore. At a sign from their leader, the deformed masses quieted down some, to a slight din, and Justin could hear that King Suit and the Small Man, face to face, crouched in tense readiness, were engaged in some kind of odd colloquy.
“You don’t play nice,” whined the madman in the costume. He was flushed, breathing heavily and blood-smeared, and his eyes rolled like spheres of glass beneath the crazy tangle of blond hair. “And now you’ve ruined my Birthday Party! Simply ruined it! How can I open my gifts like this? No, you don’t play nice at all!”
The Small Man just sneered and stared fixedly at the gore-covered knife in the other man’s fist. On the balls of his feet, he took two steps toward the lunatic as the others, Teresa included, stood with their fists up, one with a folding metal chair, and watched.
“But we can still play a fun game,” said King Suit, a slimy meanness coming into his voice. “Should I tell you about it?”
“What fuckin’ game?” snarled the Small Man, a thin stream of blood running from his nose. “What the fuck are you sayin’?”
“The Cutting Game, silly,” said the madman, waving his knife. “Now just stand still for a minute, and you’ll learn all about it.”
Warily, King Suit moved in, but the Small Man circled him, moving like a cat, and the two men engaged in a sort of spastic dance in a clearing between the two parties of combatants. Holding his breath, the Old Man’s skeletal hand painful on his forearm, Justin watched as they circled, around and around, before finally the madman struck. Quick as a snake, he lashed out with the knife, aiming a blow at the Small Man’s midriff, but his foe was ready and even faster than he was. Grabbing the madman’s wrist with both hands as he dodged the thrust, the Small Man jerked the knife-hand to the side and then, with a deep grunt, drove the blade up and into the other man’s belly. With a sickening, tearing noise, he then tore the blade deeply through King Suit’s guts. Blood, by the bucketful, and gray loops of intestine came gushing from King Suit in a frightful, sudden spasm, and the man, his face a study in surprise, fell heavily to his knees, his hands fluttering about the ghastly wound like frightened birds. The entire throng of deformed creatures gave a deep, collective groan.
“Ouch,” said King Suit stupidly, his eyes already glazing over. “That… hurts.”
The Small Man, a remorseless, flat look to his bruised features, the carving knife now in hand, stood over him and said nothing. Then the madman, all blood and stained robes and dreadlocks and doublet-and-hose, fell forward onto his face, twitched a few times, and lay still.
For a long moment, nothing happened. No one moved and no one spoke. The only sounds were heavy breathing and the madly incongruous strains of The Itsy Bitsy Spider from the record player. The Small Man, beaten and bloodied, slumped wearily and then walked over to the prostrate madman and gave the body a sharp kick in the ribs. The man was obviously stone dead.
Seemingly satisfied, the Small Man nodded, as if to himself, and then, with a stagger and a failed attempt to break his fall on a table, crashed heavily to the ground. After a single attempt to rise, he fell back into the mess of sweet cakes and confetti and streamers and lay still. Again, a very tense silence fell on the scene as everyone—even the freaks—looked at each other and more or less collectively shrugged; what now?
“Do somethin’, Case!” whispered Mr. Lampert urgently, shaking Justin’s arm. “Get out there!”
“What, me?” said Justin. “But what would I do?”
“Shit, I dunno,” hissed the Old Man. “Talk to ‘em. Take charge!”
“Me?” said Justin again, utterly dazed. “I… I suppose I could.”
“Yeah, go on!” said Lampert, shoving. “Do somethin’!”
Feeling utterly ridiculous, very intimidated, and afraid for his very life, Justin slowly crawled from beneath the table, rose, took a few paces, and noisily cleared his throat. Dozens of eyes, some not in pairs, turned to stare at him. What are you doing? clamored some sane part of his mind. What was he supposed to say? For a long, crazy moment, he drew an utter blank, his mind a mass of useless, fearful, disjointed thoughts, but then he finally spoke.
“It’s over,” he said simply, holding up his arms. “This man, this Emperor of yours, is dead. See there? He’s bled to death, understand? It’s over.”
This seemed effective. With a mass movement of resigned, even sad resignation, the throng of badly-made creatures, the blobs and the tall, spidery ones, the tentacle-men and the slug-bodied, wart-covered trolls, all sort of slumped and groaned in bewildered loss and shock. Gurgling and blurping, they shook their heads and shuffled, looking at each other and their human foes confusedly. Finally one of them, a loathsome specimen with a slug body and a head like an insect, came forth alone and tenderly gathered King Suit’s corpse into its four rubbery arms. Then, in a sort of crude, ugly procession, the corpse-bearing creature led them from the chamber. Within another five minutes, dragging off their wounded and dead, they were almost all gone
and the lately embattled group relaxed and watched them leave. All, that is, but the stocky Hispanic fellow, who went over to the corner where the record player was still playing (Billy Goat’s Gruff), raised a chair over his head and, with a savage blow, smashed the antique to smithereens.
“Thank you!” said Justin, nodding at the man. “That was terribly annoying.”
As he saw to Lampert, Cass and Swails, Teresa came over to him, eyes still flashing from the thrill of the fight, and he saw that, other than a good bruise on one cheek and some skinned knuckles, she was unharmed. On the other hand, he found that Erin Swails was still out of it, staring vacantly at nothing, her mouth half-open in a dumb, slack line. Cass, likewise seemed to be in shock, only vaguely aware of what was happening, and would only look around fearfully and mutter to herself. Justin frowned, deeply worried, but he knew that he couldn’t do much for them at the moment. He would have to get them all out of here, away from all this death and pain and madness, as soon as possible. Still feeling almost disembodied, but maybe a little bit more in control, Justin turned to Teresa, who’d been joined by a grinning, capering Kid.
“We have to get out of here,” he said gravely. “All of us, and quickly.”
“No argie from me!” said Teresa. “Grab our gear an’ the Ol’ Man an’ jet!”
“Everyone else, as well,” said Justin. “We can’t leave anyone here with these creatures.”
“Even this guy?” asked Mr. Lampert, standing over the inert form of the Small Man. “The dude that murdered Cornell an’ stole all yer stuff? You gonna save his ass, too?”
Justin thought about it, but it wasn’t really an issue. Not even the worst, low-life cannibal survie deserved to be left to the mercy of these things. And besides, he’d had to admire the man’s spirit in a fight.
After a moment, he went over to where the Old Man stood, knelt down next to the man, and looked him over, but there were so many individual injuries, from bruises to lacerations to strange, already-bandaged cuts, that he couldn’t really judge the man’s overall condition. He thought of dragging Cass over here to administer First Aid, but then demurred. Barb was in no shape to do much of anything at the moment. Justin looked up at the Old Man.