Red Circus: A Dark Collection

by John L. Campbell

  No one noticed.

  After two full minutes, Thorpe was a limp doll in his grip, and Nick let him sag to the cement before reaching down and stripping the Rolex off his wrist. He walked back to the Silverado and climbed in, unlocking the glove box and tossing the Rolex inside. It landed amid two dozen other watches, men’s and women’s.

  Toys R Us would probably have better prices on video games, he thought, pulling away from the mall and heading towards the main road. A maroon mini van bolted out of a parking row and cut him off, nearly clipping the Silverado’s fender. Behind the wheel, a soccer mom leaned out her window and flipped him off.

  “Asshole!” She tromped the gas and shot into the traffic of the main road without looking. Nick shook his head. Reckless. Mindful of other cars, he looked left before easing carefully out onto the boulevard.

  He and the soccer mom seemed to be heading in the same direction.

  GUINEA PIG GOTHIC

  The small dorm was cool and smelled of rain, the only window open just enough to let in a breeze that shook the blinds, the white slats lit by occasional flashes of lightning. The thunder had yet to arrive. Ivy covering the outside brick walls rustled like whispers.

  Jason Carpenter sat in the dead man’s room, staring at a laptop screen.

  To be fair, it was his room too, even more so now. Half the room was bare, a dozen cardboard boxes piled on the opposite, stripped mattress. Each had the name TERRY scrawled on it in black Sharpie. The other small desk was empty as well, except for a desk lamp that looked old enough to have been original issue when the college was built over a hundred years ago.

  On screen, a blank Word document stared back, the cursor winking like an accusation.

  Jason leaned back, sipped a Red Bull and stretched, his cast thumping against the desk leg, making him hiss and wince. Mid-thigh all the way down to wrap around his right foot, the cast was only a little over twenty-four hours old, and he was a long way from getting used to it. His crutches leaned against the wall between the desk and the window.

  A glance at his digital clock told him he was more than nine hours overdue for his Percoset, a fact his leg had been reminding him of for just that long. Jason looked over his shoulder at the shelf hung above the foot of his bed – the shelf where Sylvester lived – and saw the orange prescription bottle with the white cap right where he had left it beside Sylvester’s cage. He wanted one badly.

  He looked away. He wanted to live more.

  A bolt of pain from his tibia – broken neatly in two places – shot up into his hip as a challenge to his medicinal abstinence, and he clenched his fists, digging his fingernails into his palms. He opened his eyes and gasped, leaning forward and gripping the cast. That was when his right ankle – also a double fracture, not to be outdone – abruptly reminded him what happened when he moved too quickly. Jason groaned, and tears leaked from the corners of both eyes. He sagged back into the hard wooden desk chair.

  I’m right here, dumbass, called the Percoset. Take two, and in twenty minutes you’ll be right as rain.

  Jason looked back at the pills. In the cage beside them, obese Sylvester squeezed his furry ass onto his wheel and went for a spin. Squeak, squeak, squeak.

  Right as rain, Jason thought, looking at the window. He could hear the rain now, pattering on the ivy like a typewriter, rushing through the building’s green copper gutters, sluicing off the eaves of the four story building, gaining momentum as the storm built. The blinds floated into the room in the strengthening breeze.

  He pushed back from the desk, leaned to get his crutches and levered himself up with a groan, swaying, clenching the grips, fearing he was going over, and then stabilizing. Not bad, he thought. Didn’t even puke. Yet. While he still had the courage he crutched across the small floor space and snatched the prescription bottle off the shelf. The rattle of pills made the bloated guinea pig stop and stare wide-eyed for a moment, whiskers quivering, before plodding onward once more.

  Jason shoved the bottle into the front pocket of his Penn State hoody jacket, managing not to drop a crutch in the process, and took the last painful steps to the door. He checked the lock and the deadbolt – again – and put an eye to the peephole.

  Empty hallway. Cheap, worn carpet and dull, tan walls. Fluorescents behind frosted plastic panels, and at the end a red fire exit sign.

  Thunder rumbled behind him and the blinds banged against the window frame, making him jump and grimace. The leg throbbed, and Jason got back to his chair as quickly as he could, hoping he wouldn’t fall down before he got there. He didn’t, but he nearly tipped over backwards as he dropped into it, right leg fully extended. The crutches he just dropped to the floor.

  Winded and squinting from the pain, he stared at the only two signatures on his cast. One was from the nurse who wheeled him out of the hospital to Bree’s car, the other from Bree herself. Under her big, loopy, girly signature was a red lipstick mark.

  “I’ll come back and check on you tonight,” she’d promised after driving him back to campus and helping him to his room. But she hadn’t. Her cell phone went straight to voicemail, and she wasn’t responding to texts. Jason hadn’t gone so far as to call her roommate and see where she was, that might have been too clingy, and they hadn’t been going out long enough for that kind of checking-up call.

  Rain drummed against the glass, and the wood floor beneath the window was getting wet, but Jason wasn’t about to get up to close it. The lightning was coming faster now, each ripple of white followed closely by a boom.

  The lights flickered.

  Jason stared at the blank page on the laptop. His English Comp professor, Mr. Billings, had been one of the few people to visit him in the hospital. Billings knew Jason’s parent not only lived in Arizona, but were farther away still, on an anniversary cruise of the Mediterranean. The prof was cool. He had taken a liking to Jason early in the year, said he enjoyed his writing style and creative slant, and had sort of adopted him.

  Billings had gone with him to the hospital to identify Terry’s body.

  Afterwards the two of them went to a local pub, and the prof bought him a beer, even though Jason was only twenty.

  “I can’t tell you what you should be feeling,” Billings had said. “It’s a lot to take in, and losing a friend…especially like this…can leave a hole in you.”

  Jason got that. There was as empty spot in his chest, as well as his room.

  “Try writing about it. Get it down in words, how you’re feeling, what you’re thinking. Don’t worry about structure.”

  “Why?”

  Billings sipped his beer. “Because you’ll forget.” He held up a hand to stop Jason’s protest. “Not forget about what happened, I mean forget the intensity. Time will numb this for you, make it easier to handle, and that’s a good thing. But you’ll never be closer to really articulating the grief and pain and feeling as you are right after something like this happens.”

  Jason had the impression that Mr. Billings was speaking from some kind of personal experience, but knew it would be wrong to ask.

  “And it could be cathartic for you.” He shrugged. “Years from now, when you’re not hurting and the memories have faded, you’ll read what you’ve written and be amazed at how time can heal you.”

  He promised that it would fade, that in time Terry’s death would become more distant, no less sad, but a memory without such sharp edges. There in that dim pub it was meant to be comforting, safe advice. It came from someone who wouldn’t be on the bike path, who wouldn’t see what Jason was soon to see.

  The thunder had Sylvester agitated, and the chubby rodent was hauling ass around his little metal wheel. Squeak, squeak, squeak! Jason’s leg was sending out pain pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he reached into his pocket to close his hand around the bottle of Percoset, rubbing it like an Irish worry stone. Relief could be twenty minutes away.

  It occurred to him for the countless time how stupid it was to be alone in this dorm room.
But then where was he supposed to go? Even if he could manage to crutch anywhere – and the idea of even getting out the building without collapsing, vomiting or both was laughable – everything on campus was closed. He didn’t really have any friends in the dorm, at least none close enough to come babysit him, and Bree was who knew where? His best friend was dead.

  He’d spoken to his parents from the hospital. They were very concerned, but still three days out from arriving back in the states, and Jason wouldn’t hear of them cutting their anniversary trip short and spending a small fortune on a last minute flight from Greece to Pennsylvania. He said he’d see them when they got back, he wasn’t going anywhere. They were happy that Billings was there to keep an eye on him.

  He wondered if Billings would mind a call at ten o’clock at night? Uh, Mr. Billings? I’m alone in my room and there’s a storm and I’m hurt and scared and feeling sorry for myself and gee, I guess I sound like a little girl but could you come and get me, and…?

  Jason shook his head and snorted in disgust.

  Then he picked up his Blackberry and dialed Billings anyway.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Charles Billings. Please leave a message.”

  Jason tossed the phone back on the desk, and as it landed, a cannon crack of thunder shook the building. Brilliant lightning – close lightning – turned the blinds a painful white. Jason’s leg screamed, and so did he. God, he felt like crying.

  Three nights ago, Mr. Billings had come knocking. It was around 9:30, and Jason had been reclining on his bed playing Xbox instead of doing his required reading on the robber barons and the rise of the steel empire. Billings told him Terry had been in some kind of accident, and took him downstairs to where a campus police car was waiting. A paunchy, middle-aged cop sat behind the wheel, and said nothing as they made the short drive to the hospital. When Jason peppered his professor with questions, Billings had only shrugged and said, “I’m sure we’ll find out.”

  The patrol car dropped them off under the emergency room canopy, where a county deputy was waiting, a woman a little older than Jason who fit into her khaki uniform quite well. Who was he kidding, she had been completely hot.

  “Terry Edwards was murdered tonight,” she said by way of introduction, guiding them into the hospital. “We can’t get in touch with any relatives yet, and since you’re his roommate I’m going to ask you to identify him.”

  He’d gone numb, and followed her down to the hospital lower level without a word, Billings trailing. In a small, sterile room a man in scrubs led them to a stainless steel table with a sheet-draped body. Part of Jason was surprised. On TV there was always some sort of window between the body and the people doing the identification. Nope, up close and personal, complete with the smell of a fresh corpse. And no warning, either. No, “Prepare yourself, this may be disturbing.” Scrub Guy simply snapped back the sheet like some morbid bullfighter, and there was Terry, marble white, stiff, bloodless. His eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. His mouth was open, as if he’d been screaming. And his throat was open as well, torn away as if by a beast. The ragged wound was bloodless, too, and strangely, that made it a little easier to take. Billings rested a hand on his shoulder.

  “Is this Terry Edwards?” the deputy asked.

  On TV, this was the point where the family member sobbed and turned away, whimpering that it was indeed their loved one. But Jason couldn’t take his eyes off the corpse.

  “Yuh,” he grunted.

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “Yuh…yuh huh.”

  “That’s a yes,” Mr. Billings told her.

  “Good enough,” she said, nodding at Scrub Guy and motioning for Jason and Billings to follow her.

  Jason blinked, still staring. “What…what happened to him?”

  Scrub Guy snapped the sheet back over Terry’s face. Ole’. “Cause of death was massive trauma to the airways and jugular, accompanied by near complete exsanguination.”

  Jason looked at him. “Ex..san…?”

  “He bled out,” Scrub Guy explained, turning away. “Though I understand very little was found at the scene.”

  Billings and the deputy collected Jason and led him out, but half-way to the elevator he stopped. “Wait. How did…what happened to him?”

  The deputy looked tired. “Someone found him in the parking lot behind Ricky’s Fastlane a couple of hours ago. You know the place?”

  He did. It was a popular destination for the college crowd. He and Terry had been there many times, sometimes with dates, sometimes just to hang out.

  “He was like you saw him. His wallet was missing, so we’re guessing a robbery. Haven’t found the weapon. Don’t have any witnesses yet.” Then her eyes softened. “I’m sorry about your friend.” Jason knew she meant it, and for some reason that helped a little.

  But a robbery? he thought as he followed her out. People got stabbed, shot…who robs someone by ripping their throat out? She’d taken them to her own squad car, where there followed a predictable line of questions and note taking. How long have you known him? Did he say where he was going tonight? Who were his friends? Drug use? Drug sales? Any recent confrontations or enemies?

  Jason told her everything he could. Terry was a really nice guy, popular, a couple of casual girlfriends, decent grades, no serious drugs, mild partying. No fighting, no attitude, certainly nothing to provoke something like this. She’d seemed satisfied and dropped them off at the dorm. Then Billings had suggested a beer.

  The dorm lights flickered again, and he knew it was only a matter of time before they went out and stayed out. This old building was sketchy, with unpredictable plumbing and even more unreliable power. The lights went out in good weather. In this storm, it was a guarantee.

  And a few minutes later they did go out. No flickering, just a muffled thud followed by darkness. The mini fridge in the corner under the TV whined to a stop, and from somewhere beyond the door came a couple of distant groans and protests.

  Now there was only the glow of his laptop screen running on battery, and the intermittent flashes of lightning. Thunder crashed, and the wind had the blinds twisting as they flapped. Rain poured in through the open window. Jason just sat and watched the door, rubbing the bottle in his pocket. Normally a power outage was a signal it was time for bed, but he had recently decided that sleep could become a permanent condition.

  Someone walked past his room, footsteps soft on the carpeting. There was no glow of a flashlight from under the door. A moment later he heard a door close in the hallway.

  Yesterday he’d spoken to Terry’s mom, who was right now driving in from Oregon with Terry’s younger brother. He’s never met her, and the conversation was uncomfortable, filled with silent gaps. He had agreed to pack up Terry’s things for her. He didn’t know what she was going to do about the body, and didn’t ask. Ship it home, he guessed. Did FedEx have some kind of special rate for that?

  After putting everything in boxes, he’d taken his bike over to the Student Union where he’d met Bree. They went to an early movie, then sat in her car and made out for a while. It was kind of strange at first, what with his best friend brutally murdered only a day earlier and his stuff stacked on his bed in little cardboard coffins, but he got past it. They seemed to really like each other, Bree was a definite hottie, and she’d been dropping hints that he was going to get lucky. Jason decided that turning into a monk wasn’t going to bring Terry back.

  It was when he was biking back to the dorm after dark, cruising along a paved path lined with old fashioned lamp posts, that he’d seen Terry. He had just happened to glance to the right, and there he was. His roommate was standing in the shadows of a small grove of trees beside the path, dressed in jeans and a Hard Rock t-shirt. White, bloodless, he’d raised a hand in greeting, and when he spoke, Jason had seen the fangs.

  “Hey, dude,” Terry said.

  Jason had driven his bike right into a lamp post.

  When he came around there were several concer
ned-looking students standing over him, and his right leg felt like a bag of broken glass. He’d looked around, still dazed, but there was no sign of Terry.

  In the hospital – the same ER he’d passed through only a few short days ago – the doctor told him how lucky he’d been not to have broken his neck. He suggested a bike helmet in the future, and gave him a pamphlet on the perils of spinal injury. Mr. Billings had brought him a couple of magazines and managed to contact Jason’s parents aboard their ship so they could talk to their son. Bree had shown up, concerned but uncomfortable, either with the surroundings or with the question of how much concern she should be showing at this early stage of their relationship. Jason told none of them about seeing Terry.

  And now, in the dark with a storm raging outside, Jason wasn’t even a little surprised when he heard the soft knock on the door, and the familiar voice. He’d known it was coming.

  “Dude, open up,” said Terry.

  “Don’t think so.” Jason was suddenly cold, and his hands trembled.

  “C’mon, man, someone’s gonna see me. Open up.”

  Jason turned in the chair, dragging his cast around so that he was facing the door. The laptop’s screen saver cast the room in a blue glow, and his shadow loomed on the far wall.

  “Go away. You’re dead.”

  “No shit, dude. Let me in, stop being a pussy.”

  Jason blinked. A dead guy just called him a pussy. That was a first. He turned with some pain and pulled a ruler out of the desk drawer. Earlier tonight he had carefully snapped the end off at an angle, and now it had a nasty point to it. He gripped it and looked at the door.

  These days you couldn’t throw a stick in the air without it landing on something about vampires, from books to TV, a sexy HBO series and of course that monster, Twilight. Since the bike accident, he’d done a lot of thinking about what he’d seen and heard on these shows. The ruler was a small comfort.

  “You can’t come in unless I invite you.”

  There was a long pause, and Jason allowed himself a triumphant smile.