“Can I ask you guys a question?”
The girl took his hand in hers and answered sure. Rudy too grunted his assent. The boy took some time to compose his question before deciding to just blurt it out. It was something that had troubled him for some time.
“What does ‘uncle’ mean?” he asked.
Their laughter this time went on a long time.
2
The helicopter flight back to Oklahoma City was long and silent. None of the men on board even bothered to don the headphones that would have allowed conversation. There was nothing to talk about anyway. Colonel Nicholson wouldn’t even look at Arthur. He had been told only moments before takeoff this was to be a capture operation, not a kill, and had objected strenuously.
“My men aren’t trained for that. It goes against the oath.”
Having so recently entertained those same thoughts himself, Arthur was prepared for that. He gently pulled rank and assured the colonel he had every confidence in both him and his men. He hinted there were things going on he just couldn’t talk about, and at least that much was true. Because aside from the DCI’s curious interest in the boy, along with what little his father had told him, Arthur still knew nothing about why they wanted this one alive. He had considered broaching the subject with Richards to find out what he knew, but the smiling blond man was so unpalatable he decided to just let it go. Instead, he used his time on board to come up with the best possible spin he could think of to explain the botched operation.
Truth be told, they had still come very close. Before the night was over, Nicholson’s men had found a recently punctured hole in an old mine shaft. A swatch of torn and bloody denim was found stuck just inside the hole. They followed a trail of blood until it ended cold somewhere in the dusty desert. But it was obvious they’d done some damage. He took some comfort in that.
There had even been a humorous moment to leaven what was turning into a wasted and futile night. Just before finding the bloodied hole, Arthur had ordered the mineshaft unsealed. Though there hadn’t appeared to be a nook or cranny small enough for the boy to crawl through, Arthur always insisted on a thorough search. The men set their charges and then found cover behind rocks or abandoned brick walls. After the blast shook the night, the men came out of their cover and began climbing the hill.
Halfway up, as the last echo of the blast subsided, confusion swept the ranks when another sound was heard, the squeaks and squawks of thousands of bats flying out of the cave. Arthur saw looks of terror break out on men’s faces. A few of the newer ones even fired their weapons. Moments after it became obvious to all what it was, and the bats had dispersed to wherever it is that bats go, from somewhere in the darkness, a lone man began laughing. Then another, and another, and soon, the laughter of the entire regiment of sixty men resonated through the night. Even Arthur had to smile, because the one thing they were all fairly certain of after more than one hundred and fifteen years in the business was that their quarry did not turn into bats.
On the bright side, they did have the uncle. He was currently trussed up in the equipment compartment behind them. Arthur knew the CIA had methods whereby the man would be persuaded to provide whatever information he had on where the boy might be headed. Arthur was curious about that, but more than that, he wanted to know just how the man had stayed alive, traveling with one of those . . . things. It was truly unprecedented. Unfortunately, he did not foresee that opportunity presenting itself. The man was now in the CIA’s custody.
Glancing to his right, Arthur noted curiously that the blond man was not smiling, just staring placidly out the window watching the scenery go by. Arthur thought twice before deciding to reach over and tap him on the arm, motioning him to put on his headphones.
When that was done, he asked, “So what comes next?” The blond man furrowed his brow a moment before he answered.
“The DCI isn’t going to be happy, that’s for sure. He’s got big plans for this one.”
Arthur bit his tongue. Of what possible use could a mere fourteen-year-old boy — an undead one at that, whose instincts were only for blood and killing — be to the CIA? He decided to approach the subject obliquely. “How much can you tell me?” he asked.
The blond man caught his eye. Arthur noticed again just how flat the man’s blue eyes were, deadened somehow, as if they had seen too much. Arthur had already noted there was always more than a hint of violence in those eyes, if just below the surface. He saw it there now, but didn’t flinch. It told him anyway he had gotten his real question across.
The blond man appeared to wrestle with something inside himself before he answered.
“Not sure how much I can tell you,” he answered finally, “but I can tell you what certain folks are thinking. You’ve already heard a lot about it. It’s no big secret, I mean. The president even promised it. And the people voted overwhelmingly for it. What it comes down to is that America is finally going to start kicking butt and taking names. We aren’t going to let ourselves be humiliated any more by the likes of hostage taking goons or religious crazies. We’re getting tired of seeing yellow ribbons everywhere. So, our orders are to take the offensive. Plans are underway to make a full court press around the world. I mean, just think about it: Central America, Afghanistan, Africa, and the Middle East. You name it. Commies and crazies everywhere you look. Some of us are getting tired of it.”
He paused a moment, and Arthur saw the violence in his eyes subside somewhat, replaced with an almost religious fervor. He knew then that this was a man who had signed onto the agenda.
“Anyway, the last few years, we’ve been humiliated everywhere you look. Meanwhile, the Commies are on the march. Even the peanut farmer knew that was wrong, he just realized it too late. So, now it’s our turn to start pushing back. We start by rolling them the hell out of our own hemisphere, and then we roll them out of Africa, and Afghanistan, and the Far East. We build up our military to be the most powerful in the world, whatever the hell it costs. We are gonna spend them to death.” The man looked deep into Arthur’s eyes as he finished.
“We are gonna bring them down, my friend. That’s the endgame. In fact, by the end of this administration, they’re going be out of Eastern Europe, out of Berlin, and out of Africa. Mark my words. By the end of this administration, there won’t be a U.S.S.R. anymore. That’s the goal. Anything short of that will be considered failure. They are going down hard.”
The man turned away from him then to gaze again placidly out his window, while Arthur sat back to ponder what the man had said. The destruction of the Soviet Union! It was too bold, too daring. It was also impossible. And still, none of it explained why they wanted the boy.
But as he thought more about it, a chill crawled up his spine as he remembered his father’s words:
“The DCI believes . . . strongly believes . . . that we have not been using every tool available to us . . . those we hunt might be put to better use . . . a well trained and well-motivated subject would be a fine asset . . .”
It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be. It was madness.
Sheer madness.
3
It wasn’t long before the boy became a well-known fixture to both carnies and freaks alike. To the carnies, he was just another back yard boy, a gopher, the kind that came and went every summer, whose face you’d already forget come next Thanksgiving. Forget about remembering his name. Still, this one was more memorable than most. He always seemed to be there just when someone needed a helping hand, whether giving the ring toss guy a bathroom break or running the Scrambler when the man who ran it became sick.
He was often seen toting fifty-pound blocks of grease across the midway, and his patter when he took over a microphone became something people talked about. More than that, receipts at the booths he temporarily manned went up while he was there, as if somehow he was drawing the suckers in and making them happy about emptying their wallets. Everyone said the kid had the knack.
Nobody ever asked wh
o he was or where he came from. The boy simply chalked that up to carnival life. He had noticed himself that sometimes, folks just up and disappeared. No one ever asked any questions about them either. And nobody asked him where he disappeared to during the day. All the carnival folk seemed to know or care about him was that he could be counted on to be there for them at night.
Through it all, the boy grew stronger. Some of it was no doubt due to the heavy items he toted around, but the boy himself knew it was mostly because of Gunther. The man with the light bulb head was an expert at tracking down and capturing the fat rats who dined upon the carnival’s trash cans and dumpsters. Sometimes, he would surprise the boy with an occasional feral cat as well.
Of course, none of it satisfied the boy’s newfound instinct to hunt, or his craving for what he knew he would ultimately need to sustain himself: the blood of a human. He caught himself sometimes staring at the throbbing jugular veins of the women who worked the hot oil of the fried dough, or the men who worked the pizza ovens. It was enough to stir inside him both deep longing and deeper shame, so he put those thoughts aside and managed somehow to suppress those desires. Anyway, what he lacked in quality, Gunther made up for in quantity.
One day, curious why Gunther had taken such an interest in him, he asked Alice about it. She smiled and took his hand when she answered.
“Gunther was very close to the other one that was like you,” she said, “and in the same way he does for you, he used to look out for him too. William and Gunther were good friends. I guess the best answer may be that Gunther sees some of William in you . . . and maybe something of himself as well.”
The boy slept each day in the same place he woke up that first morning, under the bench seat in a trailer shared by Alice and Lois, the Mermaid. One evening, he awoke to find a pile of worn but freshly laundered clothes waiting for him. They fit perfectly and smelled of the outdoors. He asked Rudolph about them.
“Heh heh. Ltsa hef empee clooslines roun’ dis toon, ba. Heh heh.”
He stayed with the carnival as it moved from Portales to Tucumcari to Nara Visa. They spent only a few days in each place, entertaining the locals before it was time to move on. He ended all his nights sitting on the comfortable couch in the lounge of the freaks, smoking and laughing and listening to their war stories.
Wolf Boy’s name was Enrique and he was thirty-eight. Born in Mexico, he told scandalous tales of his travels down there before opting for the relative normality of America. A man of few words, Harold was the eight-foot giant he had seen helping Lois into her costume that first night. He and Lois were a couple. Harold lovingly carried her everywhere he went and saw to her every need. He sat by her side each evening as they all smoked and laughed together after the show.
It saddened the boy greatly to know that those with whom he’d grown closest — Gunther, Rudy, and Alice — were all dying. There was no doubt about that. He felt their fading life force with every touch, felt each of their illnesses slowly but surely eating them alive. What saddened him the most was the certain knowledge that Alice would be the first to go. Each time she grasped his hand in hers, he felt her heart weaker than the last time they had touched. With every passing moment, her disease made her grow older.
“How old are you, really?” he asked her one night.
She smiled a now toothless grin and answered. “Fourteen my last birthday. But don’ you worry yourself none. I got some good years left in me. I can feel it.” He just smiled and squeezed her hand tighter.
Not everyone was as kind to him. Most of the male carnies kept to themselves and didn’t say much to anyone. Others would furtively lower their eyes when he passed, as if he might somehow find out their secrets. Another group of men spent every evening after the crowds had gone home in the dining tent playing poker all night long. He was passing through the tent one evening when he heard a shouted call.
“Yo, you. Boy.”
He stopped and turned to see who had called out to him. The joking and laughing came to an abrupt halt. Some of the men began examining their hands as if they found them suddenly fascinating. Others began to ponder their shoe tops. The boy looked at each of them before catching the eye of the one who had called out. He had a smirk on his face but his eyes were mirthless. There was three days stubble on his cheeks, one of which bulged with chew. The pit stains on his shirt had become permanent. The boy stood and waited.
“Come here, boy,” the man snapped. “Didn’t you hear me the first time?” There were a few nervous snickers this time but nobody looked up.
He walked to the table and waited for the man to say what he had to say. The man stared at him with obvious contempt. He spat brown tobacco juice off to the side before he spoke.
“Just what is it with you and the freaks, boy?” he asked. “Tell ol’ Buck all about it. Cuz you know what I think? I think you’re getting it wet with the little girl. Is she the one takin’ care of you, boy? Tell ol’ Buck what it feels like to have it in a toothless mouth.”
The man paused as if waiting for an answer before narrowing his eyes and going on. “Or is it the Mermaid you got your eye on? She the one popped your cherry? Tell me son, are you getting it on with a fish? Or maybe . . . it’s the Wolf Boy!”
Dropping his cards, he made his hands into claws, then raised his head and howled. The boy had heard enough. Some of what he’d said had gone over his head anyway. But while walking away, he pondered the fact that the man had seemed to stop him for no reason at all. He continued to shout at him from behind as he walked away.
“That’s right, boy! You better get back to your friends. They’ll be looking for you before long!”
He puzzled over the incident for a while before putting it out of his mind. It was yet another of those things he didn’t understand. Come to think of it, there was much he didn’t understand, much he felt he should know, but didn’t. He didn’t have the words to articulate it, but for some time now, he’d grown increasingly aware there were gaps in his knowledge, in his memories. Sometimes, most often while awakening each evening, on the edge of his mind he saw phantom wisps of words and names and faces. And then, they were gone. Even the man who called himself uncle was fading from his memory. Anyway, there didn’t seem to be much he could do about it. Whatever those shadows were, they were elusive. He simply couldn’t remember. He wondered if he ever would.
Just outside Trinidad, Colorado, he had a second run-in with Buck. On this night, he was passing by the ring toss joint when he heard a familiar call.
“Yo, you. Boy.”
He turned and saw Buck. By then, he had learned that his name was Buck Steinhoffer, the son of Big Ben, the man who ran the carnival. Ben Steinhoffer did his business from the biggest trailer in the caravan, and though the boy had never met him, he often passed by late at night and noticed that long after the carnival had closed, lights still burned in his trailer. The boy imagined him in there just counting and counting his money.
“Come on over and set here a while,” Buck said. “I gotta go drain the beast.”
While watching the booth, a pretty young girl persuaded her boyfriend to drop about thirty bucks there. She had her heart set on a large St. Bernard that had probably hung there since the Truman administration. After getting the boyfriend to drop another twenty, the boy stepped on a lever below him. The ring sailed through the air and landed square on top of an ancient bottle of Budweiser in the Top Shelf prize row. The girl shrieked with delight. Her boyfriend just looked relieved.
When the boy reached over and lifted the stuffed dog, a surge swept through him like an electric shock. His vision clouded. He became woozy, unsteady on his feet, and then began smelling a rank mix of sweat and booze. Whatever was about to be revealed to him, the boy knew it had happened right here in this booth.
In his mind, he saw Buck pull down all the stuffed animals and pile them on the floor. He lay the girl on top of them. She was naked and crying. Then, he lay on top of her. The boy saw Buck’s scrawny white but
t reflected in the moonlight creeping in through narrow gaps.
“No,” she pleaded through her tears. “Please, no.”
Buck hit her. Her tears turned to silent whimpers. Then, the boy sensed Buck become frustrated about something. Something wasn’t working.
“Please,” the girl said. “My father can give you money. Please.”
He hit her again. Then again. And again. The boy watched her face turn black and blue. But whatever it had been that Buck was frustrated about not working, the boy sensed that problem had been resolved. When he saw the girl about to scream again, Buck put his hand over her mouth, and then, she couldn’t breathe.
“Hey, Buddy! Give it over here, willya?”
The boy snapped out of it. It was the boyfriend. His girl was waiting for the prize he had dropped fifty bucks on. Reluctantly, he handed it over.
Buck stumbled back to the booth about an hour later, reeking of sweat and booze. The boy climbed over the counter. He was only few yards down the midway when from behind, he heard Buck let out a yowl.
“Hey, boy! Not so fast now. Where is it?”
The boy turned and stared at him with disgust. Buck recoiled for a moment, as if some secret had passed between them. The boy was certain that it had. But it wasn’t long before Buck’s eyes hardened again.
“That’s all for you, boy,” he shouted. “You’re gone, you hear me? Just givin’ away prizes like that? You think money grows on trees? You’re gone, boy.”
The boy turned his back and began walking away. The shouts continued.
“Yeah, that’s right. You just run back to your freaks. They ain’t gonna save you though. You’re outta here boy! You hear me? You can go on back to hell or wherever it is that you come from for all I care. You ain’t wanted here, boy! Do you hear me? You ain’t wanted!”
Applewood (Book 2): Fledge Page 8