Carnival

by William W. Johnstone

  Davidson muttered a few obscenities under his breath. He walked around in a tight little circle for a few seconds. Then he lost his temper. “I have put up with just about all of this insanity I’m going to take. I don’t know what kind of stunt you’re trying to pull. But don’t lay any more of it on me. This is all some sort of big joke you old coots are putting down. And I don’t appreciate it. I ought to run you both into a cell and you can sit in there and see how funny it is.”

  “You married, Sergeant?” Doc Reynolds asked.

  “Not anymore. Divorced.”

  “Any kids?”

  “One. Haven’t seen the girl in years. She took her to California and got remarried. Why all these questions?”

  “You know where your daughter is?”

  “No. She planned it that way. I spent a fortune on investigators; never could find her.”

  “So you don’t have much to lose, do you, Sergeant?”

  “Just my life.”

  “What kind of weapons do you have in that car?”

  “You name it, mister. What’s all this talk leading to?”

  “You think this is a joke, Sergeant? Well, you just get all your gear on, and step on in here. But if you elect to do that, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Davidson hesitated, then walked to the rear of his car.

  “Sarge? ...” Walton said.

  “No!” Davidson was adamant. “Something ... funky is going on in there. I don’t kow what. But we got a highway cop in there, and I for one am going in and see about her.”

  “Frenchy is all right,” Doc told them. “She’s got a lot of brass on her butt, boys. She and Martin Holland . . .” he jerked a thumb, “... his son, have been making goo-goo eyes at each other ever since the boy found out his wife was a demon.”

  Davidson fixed a jaundiced gaze at the doctor. “His wife is a what?”

  “The devil’s own. A shape-changer. And Martin, like us, has a third eye.”

  “Where is it, under his hat!”

  Nobody laughed at the try at humor.

  Davidson took off his shirt and slipped into body armor, then put his shirt back on. He laid aside his revolver and slipped into a harness that contained a sixteen shot 9mm and half a dozen full clips. He loaded up with shotgun shells and clips for an M-16. Then he turned to face the other troopers.

  “I am making this a direct order, boys. You are all, all of you, to remain on this side of that city limits sign and wait for Captain Mayfield. Is that understood?”

  It was.

  “Sergeant,” Reynolds said. “How many walkie-talkies did you and your men bring with you?”

  “We each have one.”

  “Turn one on, set it right, and then toss it to me. I want you to see what you’re letting yourself in for.”

  Walkie talkie in hand, Reynolds backed up until he was nearly out of voice range. He keyed the hand set and spoke into it. He could not be heard nor could he receive transmissions from any of the cops.

  Doc walked back to the invisible line. “You see what I mean, Sergeant?”

  “I see it. But I don’t understand it. I’m coming in.”

  Doc and Holland shrugged, Doc saying, “Your choice.”

  The sergeant stepped up to the invisible line and stopped. His men could see him, Doc and Holland could see him. But he could see none of them. They all watched as panic etched his broad face.

  “It isn’t too late, Sergeant,” Doc called. “You can still change your mind. What do you see where you are?”

  “Nothing.” Davidson forced his voice to remain calm. “It’s black. But shiny, sort of. Where am I?”

  “You’re very close to truth in that last remark. And you’re running out of time. Make your choice and do it quickly.”

  Davidson stepped into the town limits of Holland. He was once more visible. He shook his head and blinked a couple of times. “What happens if I try to step back out?”

  “You can’t. You don’t exist. You’ll lose your form and eventually you’d be forced back in.”

  “Well,” the sergeant stepped up to the men, “I guess I’m in for the duration.”

  “You certainly are,” came the reply.

  * * *

  “See them?” Dick whispered.

  “I see them,” Martin said. “Lyle’s leading the bunch.”

  Dick peered through the darkness, his eyes on the rear of the little group, all spread out behind the livestock pavilion. Mark held the shotgun taken from Dick’s truck, Ed the 30-30 lever-action rifle. They were good kids. They would stand.

  A chant rose from the large crowd massed together in the night, some one hundred yards from the beleaguered little group of Chosen Ones ... although none among them knew why they personally had been spared.

  “What are they saying, Don?” Jeanne asked, kneeling very close to the young cowboy.

  “I can’t make it out.”

  It sounded to Martin as though they were chanting “Torandie.” But that made no sense. He listened more intently, and was then able to separate the words.

  “Torture and die!”

  “Hear it now, Ned?” he called softly.

  “Unfortunately, yes. Martin? I do not profess to have the courage of my Savior. I will not allow them to take me alive.”

  “You can’t be sure how deep your well of courage is, Ned. Besides, they’re not taking anyone, alive or dead.”

  “You have more faith than I, my friend.”

  “No. I just know what I can do, that’s all.”

  Martin stared at the high dry grass just in front of the maddened, chanting group. He felt a cold rage take control of him. His eyes changed, burning yellow-amber. The grass exploded in flames, clearly illuminating those who had chosen to follow the calling of the Dark One.

  The fires spread just as a slight breeze whipped up, driving the flames toward the knot of evil, pushing them back toward the fence line and away from the livestock pavilion.

  Martin maintained his deadly gaze and the flames licked upward, hotly kissing the cool night air as the lethal yellow danced in fury, pushed on by a power that was being applied but not understood by the user.

  A man ran from the group, trying to escape into the darkness at the edge of the flames. Ed lifted the rifle to his shoulder, took his time, and squeezed off a round. The man flung his arms into the air and pitched forward on his face, dying without a sound.

  Ed swallowed hard and levered the empty brass out and a fresh round into the .30-30.

  No one complimented the boy on his accuracy, even though if there ever was a time to kill, that time was upon them.

  Sweat was beading Martin’s head as his unblinking eyes continued to ignite and push the fires toward the now totally panicked mob of men and women. The crowd now had their backs to the fence, with some trying to climb the fence. Their weight collapsed the chainlink, ripping out several sections. But it was too late, their clothing burst into flames, spreading upward to fire their hair. The screaming overrode the happy sounds of the midway. The smell of cooked flesh drifted back to Martin and his group.

  Martin closed his eyes and let his mind rest. Frenchy came to his side and with a handkerchief, wiped the thin rivers of sweat from his face.

  “I think we could make it now, Martin,” she said. “The fence has about a fifty foot gap in it.”

  The fire had reached several vehicles parked outside the grounds, with guards crouched behind them. The gas tanks blew, sending flames rolling into the night sky and knocking human torches clear across the road, where those still alive kicked and screamed their way into death and into the scaly, pusy, flesh-rotted arms of what awaited them ... forever.

  “You go, Frenchy. Take the kids. I have to stay.”

  “I’ll be right here with you. How do you feel?”

  “A little weak. But just like before, recovering very fast.”

  “You’re not as pale and trembly as you were the first time you did this.”

  He smiled a
t her. “I’m getting the hang of it, I guess.”

  She stared at him. “What am I thinking, Martin?”

  He looked into her eyes. “That your feelings are very confused about some ol’ boy.”

  “They are that, ol’ boy.”

  Martin slipped his arm around her and pulled her to him, kissing her gently. Not a lustful or demanding kiss. More a kiss of affection and assurance.

  “Dad!” Mark called. “What do we do, now? Nabo is walking toward us.”

  TWELVE

  Walton had heard the call from the helicopter pilot and using the two patrol cars, their headlights illuminated a landing pad in a parking lot not far from the city limits sign. And the invisible line that separated life from death.

  Walton hurriedly briefed Mayfield on the walk from the ’copter.

  If Mayfield was startled, he did not show it. “Gene stepped inside this line?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And when he did, his walkie-talkie stopped working?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Walton stopped the parade of cops just inside the safe line.

  “Gene!” Mayfield called. “You’re a fool!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But you’re also a very brave man.”

  “If I’m so brave, how come my knees are knocking together, Captain?”

  Mayfield smiled. No one had noticed that the Captain of Nebraska Highway Patrol was dressed in urban combat gear, from his bloused boots to the battle harness and the Uzi slung over his shoulder. He turned to a lieutenant.

  “Take care of things, Norton.” Then he walked to a patrol car, cranked it up, and drove over the line, joining his sergeant.

  “Now, who’s the fool, Captain?” Davidson asked, as Mayfield got out of the car.

  “I suppose that will remain to be seen, Gene.” He looked at Holland. “Uncle Marty.”

  “Bobtail. That was a stupid stunt you just pulled, boy. You can’t get out.” His dentures clacked and clicked and whistled.

  “First store we come to, I’m gonna get you some Poli-Grip, Uncle Marty. That clacking is gonna drive us all crazy.”

  “We don’t have the time for that, boy. Me and Doc got to go in my truck. And don’t ask me why; you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand any of this!”

  “You will.”

  “I’ll take your word for that. Coming in, we saw a lot of flames over at the fairgrounds Can you explain that, Uncle Marty, Doc?”

  Doc Reynolds took it. “That was probably Martin Holland using his gift to defend his little group.”

  “His ... gift?”

  “He has a third eye. Some call it the insight. He’s only just discovered the power. Don’t get in his way when he’s using it.”

  “I will, ah, do my best to avoid this ... third eye.” Wherever he keeps it, Mayfield thought.

  “He keeps it in his mind, smart-ass,” Doc told the man. “And watch what you think. He can look into your head as easily as I can.”

  “I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch!” a woman hollered. “You just watch me.”

  Heads turned and most of the eyes widened in horror as a naked woman, minus one arm and one leg came clopping up the street. She had tied a stick of stove wood around the stump of the missing leg. She also had a meat cleaver buried right in the middle of her head.

  And carried another meat cleaver in her one remaining hand.

  “Ruth Horton,” Doc said, as the woman clopped and staggered over to them.

  Mayfield and Davidson stepped closer to the patrol car as the woman staggered up against the rusted old pickup truck.

  “Ruth,” Doc said. “You’ll be wanting a ride to the fairgrounds, I suppose?”

  “Absolutely right!” she bellowed. Her flesh was unnaturally white in the gloom.

  “Climb in!” Holland told her. “In the back.”

  Doc looked at him. “Thank you for that, at least.”

  Ruth fell into the bed of the truck.

  The two old men, each on the opposite sides of the line of life and death, moved toward the truck.

  “Wait a minute!” Mayfield found his voice. “What about us?”

  “My suggestion is that you stand clear until it’s over,” Doc told him. “One way or the other. ’Course, that’s up to you boys.”

  The old men got into the truck and Holland fired it off. Blue smoke poured and the truck went sparking and lurching and rattle-banging off in the general direction of the fairgrounds.

  The sergeant looked at the captain. “Do we follow them?”

  “Can we get out of the fairgrounds area?”

  “According to Doc, we can.”

  “Let’s prowl the town for a few minutes. This Martin Holland fellow seems to be holding his own over there. Besides, I still don’t know what we’re up against. You?”

  “You got part of it right, Captain.”

  * * *

  Mark, unknown to the adults, had made a side trip to the sportsmen’s section of a pavilion during their search for Frenchy. There he had picked up a crossbow and a leather quiver filled with bolts. He had given them to Amy for safekeeping and forgotten about it. Now he remembered.

  “The crossbow—what’d you do with it, Amy?” he whispered.

  She pointed. “Laid it right over there.”

  “Get it for me. I don’t want to leave this position.”

  The girl was back in half a minute, handing the powerful weapon to her boyfriend. “What are you going to do, Mark? Do you think you can kill that awful man with an arrow?”

  “No. But we’re being set up. Some men are slipping up on us. On Nabo’s left side. One of them is Dr. Tressalt. I think. Get Jeanne off to one side. Tell her about Dr. Tressalt and then take Rich as far to the other side of the circle as you can get him. You know why.”

  “I don’t want to leave you, Mark.”

  “Go on, Amy,” he said gently, then kissed her. “I don’t want Rich to see me kill his dad.” If I can do it, that is, the boy thought.

  The girl reluctantly moved away.

  Mark set the bow-string and cranked it back until he could not turn the crank another turn. He set the bolt in place.

  “Mr. Mayor!” Nabo called. “Are you there, friend?”

  “I’m here,” Martin spoke just loud enough to be heard. “But I’m sure not your friend.”

  “What a pity that you hold such hate in your heart.”

  “Yeah, I’m all torn up about it, Nabo.”

  The man in black laughed in the still fiery night; the smell of burning tires and human flesh was strong by the fence line.

  “Can you kill him, Martin?” Ned whispered.

  “No. I don’t think so, Ned. I don’t know if anything can kill him.” Martin’s eyes were fixed on Nabo. He had not noticed the men slipping up, edging closer in the tall grass. “What do you want, Nabo?”

  “More than a modicum of civility on your part would be much appreciated, Mayor.”

  “Sorry for my bluntness, Nabo.” Martin’s tone overflowed with sarcasm. “You might say that I’ve been under a bit of stress lately.”

  “Your apology is noted and accepted.” Then he surprised them all by saying, “You’ve won a few rounds, you know?”

  “No, I didn’t know that at all.”

  “Well, it’s a small victory, to be sure. Your little ... group has managed to demoralize the townspeople. You’ve really taken a toll this night.”

  “Music to my ears.”

  “No doubt. But you still can’t get out of town. For that matter,” he added with acid-like bitterness in his voice, leaving no doubt in Martin’s mind abot his truthfulness, “neither can I.”

  “And? . ...”

  “Compromise.”

  “Make a deal with the devil? I don’t think so, Nabo.”

  “Hear me out, Martin. Don’t be too hasty with your rejection. I alone know what can happen. You don’t.”

  Martin waited.

  “I�
��m taking your silence as an indication that you will at least hear me out. That’s good. Are you a gambler?”

  “I enjoy a friendly game of penny-ante poker, yes.”

  Nabo cursed under his breath. The man was definitely a goody-two-shoes type. But he knew that there had to be a fatal flaw somewhere within him. The trick was in finding it.

  “We’re both winners in this game. You realize that, don’t you, Martin?”

  “No, I don’t. Get to the point.”

  Gary had slipped closer, very much in range of Mark’s crossbow. Still, he waited, the crossbow at the ready.

  “Forget the wager, then,” Nabo’s tone held a note of weariness. “You obviously are no sport.”

  Mark lifted the crossbow to his shoulder.

  “Let me tell you a truth, Martin,” Nabo spoke. “I can destroy this town. The only reason I don’t do that is because I have no desire to live among rubble and ruin.”

  “You’re telling me that you are trapped in here just as we are?”

  His sigh was audible over the distance. “Yes, Martin, this is what I’m saying.”

  “And this ... condition could go on forever?”

  “That is correct.”

  “I find that unacceptable.”

  “I thought you might.”

  Martin thought about that for a moment. “How?”

  “How ... what?”

  “How can that be?”

  “Because you are not. Let me explain. Your scientists, when they spoke of time warps, were closer to the truth than even they realized. You’re not really in a warp, but that will suffice.”

  “A whole town cannot just ... vanish, Nabo.”

  “The town has not vanished. You have not vanished. But your soul is gone. Your being. Your molecular make-up has been altered. Are you beginning to understand?”

  “You might say that those beings still present outside of this warp are merely our clones,” Ed spoke from the edge of the circle.

  “Ah!” Nabo’s voice held a note of satisfaction. “The young man is not one hundred percent accurate, but he is very close. Yes. That will do. Thank you, young man.”

  “We are the souls and those that should remain visible are merely shells, Mr. Holland,” Ed added it up.

  “Oh, I do so enjoy an intelligent mortal!” Nabo cried. “Especially one so young. How would you like to be the most famous scientist in all the world, young man?”