Red Circus: A Dark Collection

by John L. Campbell

  The family had settled on Paesano’s, a small, exquisite little eatery tucked in amongst larger restaurants and shops, when the van moved past them on the narrow street. The bearded driver gave them a long, hard look as he passed, and an internal warning sounded for Lorenzo. This was the third time he’d seen that van since leaving the house.

  He put his hands on his kids’ shoulders. “You two go in and pick out what you want. I’ll be along in a second.”

  Rosaria frowned at him. “You’re not smoking again, are you?”

  A smile. “No, mi amorita, not a puff.”

  They went inside, and Lorenzo walked to the next restaurant, taking a seat at a sidewalk table. A waiter instantly brought him a menu and ice water, snapping a linen napkin into his lap. Lorenzo ignored the menu and watched the street.

  It wasn’t a long wait, for they were confident. A trio of men approached on the opposite side of the street, unshaven, pumped with adrenalin, wearing long raincoats to hide their weapons. The bearded man walked ahead, followed by a slight Asian and a linebacker-type, a big bruiser Lorenzo’s size. Their eyes never left him as they pushed their way up the crowded sidewalk, speaking rapidly to one another. As Lorenzo rose from his table, they started across the street.

  Maya’s killers. Come for him, now, and his children. He felt the rage come upon him and he turned down the narrow alley next to the restaurant.

  It opened into another, wider alley choked with dumpsters and lit only by a single bulb over the back door of Paesano’s. He found them all in the shadows, a young Italian waiter on his knees and sagging against a brick wall, Juan and Rosaria locked on each side of his neck. His eyes were fluttering.

  Lorenzo smelled the blood, wild and enticing, and he also smelled the bearded man approaching from the smaller alley with his friends. The same smell he’d picked up a year ago at the ashy, burnt spot in a park not far from the house, the place where Maya had been ambushed and destroyed. She had stayed out too late, sluggish from feeding and the approach of dawn in a pink and orange sky, slow and unable to properly defend herself.

  Rosaria detached from the young Italian, her chin smeared red, licking her fangs. “Sorry, Dad, we just couldn’t wait.” Then her eyes grew large as she looked past him. Lorenzo turned.

  The hunters faced them, the Asian and the Bruiser brandishing stakes, the bearded man with a big silver crucifix thrust before him. “Unclean beast, may the power of God strike you down!”

  Maya had been a devout Catholic, practicing even after the change. The bearded man would have paralyzed her this way, allowing the others to stake her.

  Lorenzo stopped being Catholic a long time ago.

  He took the Bruiser first, on him in a blur, snapping his neck to brutally it turned his head around backwards. Before the big man’s body hit the ground, he had torn out the Asian’s heart and flung him lifeless against a dumpster.

  Rosaria and Juan stood frozen and staring, their meal forgotten.

  The bearded hunter started backing up, the crucifix trembling before him, the stink of his fear and abruptly released bladder tangible in the air. There was so much Lorenzo wanted to say, meaningless accusations he wanted answers for, an accounting for destroying his beloved wife, the mother of his children.

  He settled for a maiming.

  He thumbed out the hunter’s eyes. His powerful hands tore off the ears, ripped out the tongue. Next the arms came off, and then the legs. And before his would-be killer slipped away, Lorenzo bit open his own wrist and forced the man to drink the powerful blood.

  Forced him to heal.

  Forced him to live. Like that.

  Lorenzo crouched beside the shivering thing on the ground, looking at him with all the mercy an owl reserves for a mouse. In a whisper he said, “Tell your tales of vampires now, if you can.” Then he stripped the long coat off the dead Bruiser and shrugged into it to conceal his bloody clothes.

  “Did you get enough?” He gestured at the lethargic waiter, and Rosaria and Juan nodded together. His eyes were soft once again for his children, who looked back at him in awe and with a love so powerful he felt it. In that instant he felt a large part of his grief let go, leaving him with a sigh.

  Lorenzo put his arms around their shoulders and led them through the darkness of the alley, towards the lights beyond.

  “I think next week we’ll try Chinese.”

  WHITE OUT

  Julia was in a white room, filled with screaming white cats. She wasn’t sure why, and didn’t know how she knew they were screaming, since she couldn’t really hear them.

  “Rabbit’s feet,” she said, her voice sounding distant. Snip went the scissors, and another little white cat paw came away from a little white leg. There was no blood, which was understandable. It was just like all the other times.

  Snip, snippity. The little paws dropped into neat little piles at her feet. She didn’t know what happened to the cats she snipped, somehow lost track of them, but there were more. It was a big room, with no exits, and they ran but couldn’t get out. Snip.

  She floated away from a little pile – she always floated when she was snipping – her bare feet skimming furry white backs. It tickled her toes. She saw a group of them huddled in a corner. They didn’t arch or hiss, only stared at her.

  Snippity, snippity, snip.

  “Rabbit’s feet, rabbit’s feet,” she sang.

  Julia wasn’t worried about the cats. She did this often, and every time they ended up just fine. They had never screamed before, though. But since she couldn’t really hear them, they might not really be screaming.

  Snip!

  She had been snipping rabbit’s feet – she knew they were really cat feet, she just called them that – for the last eleven nights. Every bedtime she snuggled under the covers next to Paul and waited to dream of the white room. When she awoke, the fingers of her right hand ached from holding scissors, but she felt great for the rest of the day, and that made it worthwhile.

  Julia floated away from the corner and the new pile of paws.

  “Rabbit’s feet,” she said thickly, and a stringer of saliva slipped through her lips and onto her cotton nightgown. Paul teased her about drooling in her sleep, complaining that her pillow was always damp when he stole her side of the bed in the morning, but he didn’t really mind. He was a good husband.

  Why didn’t they stop screaming? Didn’t they know they would have their paws back tomorrow, as always, so Julia could start snipping all over? Only a few remained, which always meant she would be waking soon. Julia drifted down to one that was trying to hide. Silly cat, she thought, it’s a big empty room, where can you go?

  Snip, snip.

  The screaming stopped. Good kitties. Now there was a pounding noise. This was new, and she wondered where it was coming from. “Rabbit’s feet!” she yelled.

  Sergeant Raymond Sherman stood away from the door and kicked. The frame splintered, and his younger partner Francis rushed through the doorway, Sherman following.

  “Rabbit’s feet,” said Julia happily, and lifted another tiny pink finger. A hand, arm and shoulder came with it. Francis saw that the finger was smeared with blue paint. Fingerpaint.

  Snip. Off came the finger, and Julia let the little hand drop to the tiled floor with a smack. In took only seconds for the officers to take in the drooling pre-school teacher, the scene in the main playroom of the Merry Voices Daycare, and Sergeant Sherman sagged against a brightly-painted wall and vomited.

  He had dropped his daughter off in this very room this morning.

  The younger man pulled his pistol.

  “Rabbit’s feet,” grinned Julia, and reached for another tiny hand.

  Francis shot her three times.

  THE GLADES

  The smell of orchids drifted out of the swamp, riding a gentle breeze that rustled the branches of cypress trees. From the open-air club nestled in the center of the Everglades came the powerful pop music of the Daytona Boys, the clink of glasses, and a steady mu
rmuring of many conversations.

  The club itself was actually a carpeted platform, except for the smooth wooden dance floor, which sat three feet above the softly rippling emerald water of the swamp. Polished brass railings, entwined with pink and blue neon threads, provided a barrier between the lush vegetation and the club patrons.

  Sharply dressed customers, in pairs, groups and singles, walked to the platform by way of a gravel path littered with crushed orchids, oohing and aahing at the fantastic, impossible sights around them. Crowded tables jammed the floor space, and cocktail waitresses maneuvered skillfully through the masses carrying trays of expensive, brightly colored drinks to the wealthy and fashionable young club goers.

  A girl of no more than twenty-two, dressed in a black, low-cut spandex dress, was seated at a table near the water. She suddenly squealed in mock terror, grabbing her boyfriend’s leg as she pointed down into the swamp nearby. The boy leaned over her and saw a large, black water snake slipping through the neon-lit reeds. He smiled at the girl. Of course the snake couldn’t possibly hurt her, she knew it, but it was all part of the game.

  Dingo slowly weaved his way through the crowd, hands stuffed in the pockets of his white jacket, his diamond earring catching some pink neon and sending it out in a startling prism effect. It was a good night. Shit, it was a great night. The place was packed, as it had been all week, and there was every indication that business would stay this way. He felt himself become aroused inside his expensive slacks at the thought of the cash he would make when the weekend hit.

  Toni, one of his favorite waitresses, and not at all a bad lay, slid close to him and spoke directly into his ear so he could hear her above the din. “What do you think about tonight, lover?” She slipped her tongue in his ear.

  Dingo grinned and looked at her. “Can’t, baby. Business.” He slid his palm over her ass. “Maybe another time.”

  Toni pouted her lower lip. “But lover…”

  Dingo slapped her ass, a little harder than a playful smack. “We all gotta make a living, baby.” He jerked his head at the crowd. “Back to work.”

  Toni tossed her mane of bleached hair and walked away pissed. Dingo ignored her and checked his Rolex, which he wore on the inside of his wrist. 11:05. Should be time.

  As if his very thoughts were a cue, at that moment the drone of aircraft engines came from far out over the swamp. Dozens of heads turned at the increasing noise, clearly heard over the thunder of the Daytona Boys. Then without warning, a twin-engine Beechcraft burst over the clearing above the club, white landing lights overwhelming the soft neon. Hair and clothing flapped around in the prop wash for several seconds, and then the plane was out of view again, the roar of its engines decreasing as it was throttled back.

  The crowd came alive with excited shouts and screams, and the club goers rushed to the railing on one side of the platform to watch as the Beechcraft set down on a previously-unnoticed stretch of runway, not far from the club. The plane taxied 180 degrees, so that it was facing the crowd, and came to a stop. A moment later the side door dropped, and a man dressed in dark clothing jumped down with a large canvas bag over one shoulder, a submachine gun over the other.

  Ever so subtly, the club drifted closer to the aircraft, cypress trees seeming to slide out of its path gently and without protest. A full moon clearly illuminated the scene for the crowd.

  The man with the bag stood quietly next to his aircraft, a gentle breeze ruffling his long hair. The crowd was silent in anticipation. This was new. A minute passed, and then a Jeep idled out of the darkness of the trees around the airstrip, running without lights, and came to a stop fifty feet from the Beechcraft. The driver stood on his seat but did not exit the Jeep, as the passenger, a man dressed in a black suit, approached the pilot. Their conversation was easily heard by the crowd, even though the men were a hundred feet away.

  “You got my stuff, or what?” asked the man in the suit.

  “You got my green?” asked the pilot.

  The suit nodded and gestured to the driver, who approached with a briefcase and set it down at the suit’s feet. The pilot shrugged off the canvas bag and pushed it to the suit with one foot. The suit stooped and unzipped the bag, pulling a plastic-wrapped bundle of white powder out and hefting it in one hand. “Looks good to me.”

  Suddenly the driver snatched an automatic from inside his jacket. “Watch out!” yelled a club patron. Of course the pilot didn’t hear him. The driver fired at the pilot, dropping him. The suit grabbed both the canvas bag of blow and the briefcase, and made a run for the Jeep. The pilot, however, was not dead. He rolled over, machinegun held in one hand, and let off a long burst at both men. The crowd screamed and instinctively ducked. The bullets caught the driver in the chest and blew him backwards. The suit arched his back as rounds thudded into him, then collapsed onto his face. Several people cheered, and there was some nervous laughter, people feeling slightly silly at being momentarily terrified.

  Dingo’s grin widened. The best part was yet to come.

  The pilot stood, swaying unsteadily, and moonlight clearly showed the bleeding wound in his shoulder. He started to walk towards the Jeep when an odd thing happened. All of a sudden the pilot was standing in front of his aircraft once again, and the suit was standing before him.

  “You got my stuff, or what?”

  “You got my green?”

  The customers looked at each other in puzzlement at first, and then moans of disappointment coursed through the crowd. They began to disperse, making their way back to the tables.

  Dingo slammed a fist down onto the bar. “Goddammit!” He ran to the end of the bar, opened a panel set in the wood, and flipped a toggle switch with the label “Drug Deal” above it. At once, the scene with the plane and the three men winked out and was replaced by a calm, moonlit swamp.

  One of the bartenders leaned over to him. “What gives, boss?”

  Dingo jabbed a finger in his chest, his face red. “Shut the fuck up!”

  The bartender held up his palms in surrender and took a step back. Dingo ran a hand over his slicked-back hair and looked around at the crowd. It was easy to see the looks of annoyance and hear snatches of sarcastic conversations. He heard the words “Sodom and Gomorrah,” the name of his rival’s club, and seethed. He snapped his fingers and the bartender approached hesitantly.

  “Where the fuck is Neil?”

  The bartender nodded towards the gravel and orchid trail. “I think he’s out front.”

  Dingo thumped his index finger on the bar. “You go and tell that useless fuck that I want him in my office. You got it?”

  The bartender vanished to find Neil, and Dingo stalked to the edge of the platform, passing between a narrow space in the brass railing, and moving down the four steps concealed in the swamp water to the concrete floor beneath.

  Four paces took him beyond the swamp, revealing the club as it really was. Dozens of costly computer projectors were placed around the platform, creating the images seen from within. Blowers and ventilators, as well as high-tech speakers were mounted on both the floor and the ceiling above the platform, all creating the breezes, smell and sound the patrons experienced.

  Dingo walked through an oak door in one wall, entering his private office. His Gucci shoes whispered over the thick carpeting, and he dropped into the leather chair behind his desk. He looked over at the mountain or flesh and hard muscle that were Carlo. The bouncer was seated on a leather couch; a tiny portable TV perched on his knees, engrossed in a Dukes of Hazard rerun.

  “Turn that shit off now.”

  Carlo looked at his boss through heavy-lidded eyes, and obediently switched the television off, setting it to the side and sitting quietly.

  Dingo looked at the bank of monitors set in one wall, and could immediately tell that there were fewer customers present than before the “drug deal.” He gritted his teeth and pounded his fists on the desk, like a four-year-old throwing a temper tantrum. After a moment he stopped, yanked hi
s desk drawer open, and removed a small, smoked glass vial. He unscrewed the cap, tapped a small amount of the white powder into his extra-long pinkie nail, and snorted it. He repeated the process with the other nostril, then rubbed some over his gums and replaced the vial in the desk. He sat still for a moment, then shook his head and gasped as the coke hit him. He settled back into his chair and drummed his fingers on the desk.

  The office door opened and Neil walked in, closing it quietly behind him. He took a seat in front of the desk and waited.

  Dingo stared at him, a stupid, humorless grin spread over his face, fingers drumming. “What the fuck was that?”

  Neil leaned forward. “Just a glitch in the system. I can have it running right by tomorrow.”

  “A glitch? You call that a fucking glitch? Look at that!” Dingo stabbed a finger at the closed circuit monitors. “What do you see?”

  “Look, Dingo…”

  “What the fuck do you see?”

  Neil sat back and said nothing.

  “I’ll tell you what I see. Money walking out of my club. I see people saying The Glades is bullshit! I see money, my money going across town to that fucking Sodomy and Gonorrhea!” Dingo grabbed a heavy glass ashtray and sent it flying across the room to explode in a hundred fragments against a wall. Neil flinched.

  “In case you didn’t know it, dickhead,” Dingo continued, “we’re not the only hologram club in this fucking town.”

  Neil knew it all too well. In fact the hologram tech at Sodom and Gomorrah was a former colleague of his, and at one time, a friend. But not so good a friend that Neil could expect a job offer if he left The Glades, and since nothing else paid like this, he was resigned to working for this egotistical, psychopathic, coked-out little shit.

  Dingo continued his tirade. “Your little glitch is going to cost me big money, baby. I told you I didn’t like the idea in the first place.”