Carniepunk

by Rachel Caine

  I had a few options at that moment. I could have called for backup. I could have searched for Moo and Shar in that room, hoping I could wake them up or reconnect them with their orbs. I could also have taken on the clown directly and risked killing him before I could free the souls.

  Instead, without really thinking about it, I did what I do best. I acted entirely rashly, rushing headfirst into danger.

  My legs carried me forward in a sprint that would have made an Olympian envious, and it took me a whole second to realize I was screaming like a banshee. The clown looked as surprised as I felt to find myself hurtling toward him, and I think he was even more surprised when I neatly dodged his outstretched arm, plunging at the mirror itself.

  I sort of expected to bounce off of it. But instead, I plummeted—

  falling,

  and falling,

  and falling.

  —

  A FOOTBALL PLAYER was charging toward me. My muscles clenched, the ball solid between my calloused hands. My focus was split between the wall of man hurtling toward me and the man behind me, waiting for me to pass. At the last second, as I saw the pimples marring my opponent’s chin, my arm swung with brutal force, sending the ball to my teammate just as the crowd went wild and I went down. . . .

  The shadowy presence of the hulking older man passed out of me, but before I could recover, the shadow of a woman about my age collided with me.

  My daughter twirled, her spangly tutu so impossibly tiny on her equally tiny five-year-old frame. My husband watched her with sad eyes, and I wondered what he was thinking. That she was growing up too fast? That we’d miss these years when she was a bratty teen? I reached over to grasp his hand. When his eyes met mine, I smiled and leaned closer. “We made that beautiful creature,” I told him, and he leaned in to kiss me. . . .

  I sidestepped out of the shadow woman, only to careen into a small shadow, that of a child.

  Candy and pop and candy and pop and candy . . . the bright lights twirl past and the boxes are endless and every one has a cartoon and a toy and I want them all and Mom always gives in and lets me have one and I’ll ask her again if I can have that, or that, or that, or that, or that. . . .

  I pulled myself away from the child’s shadow, only more carefully this time. I was standing on a spectral plain of what looked like gray grass. The sky was gray, the landscape was unrelentingly gray, and it stretched forever and forever.

  There was no horizon, I realized, a shiver running down my spine. Wherever I was, it wasn’t earth with its comforting roundness.

  I looked around, trying to get my bearings, but all I saw was a gray landscape and gray people. But then I recognized a few people from the crowd—the silver orbs must have become these ghostlike apparitions.

  I also couldn’t see a way out. It wasn’t till I looked up that I saw, shimmering tantalizingly, an exact replica of the mirror from the circus tent floating just above me in the sky. I thought I could even see the clown, although the image was faint, seen through the other side of the mirror’s surface.

  That had to be my way out. Unfortunately, there was no way I would reach it unless I could find something to stand on. Peering about, I turned, only to collide with another of those ghostly shadows. . . .

  She cried like she didn’t want it, but all those bitches are the same. My dick was so hard in her and she liked it, she was whimpering and that wasn’t pain, I’d bet my Camaro on that. She kept whispering “No” till I slapped her again and again till she shut up and my hand was bloody, like her lip. “Whore,” I whispered, the word making me want to come. . . .

  “Holy shit,” I said, plunging out of that shadow as quickly as I could. I whirled around to come face-to-face with a middle-aged man with what would have been a powerful build were he not made of something akin to gray smoke. His face was hard, and I recognized him.

  He’d been pumping gas into a massive black Dodge Ram dually when we stopped to refuel in Harmony. He had ogled all of us when we got out of the car, the whole time chewing on a toothpick.

  I took a deep breath, trying to figure out what these experiences meant. Were they fantasies? Memories? Dreams?

  Then I remembered what Moo had said in the car, about creatures eating memories as a way of chewing through souls. I turned back to the guy from the gas station, watching him intently. He shuffled forward a tiny bit, then back, and just for a moment his face crunched up a little—a bit like that of a man having an orgasm. I remembered his thoughts of the woman as his expression again grew slack—and his already ghostly form grew just a tad less visible. He’d faded, infinitesimally, as if something had siphoned off a bit of his energy.

  Everything I was seeing corroborated what Moo had said earlier. Which meant I hadn’t stumbled into that man’s sick fantasy but into what had been a reality.

  “I’ll remember you,” I told his specter, my voice weirdly muffled in the shadow realm. “And if I do manage to get you out of here, don’t think I’m rescuing you. ’Cuz we’re going to have a little chat.”

  I’d bring Moo. A victim of abuse at the hands of her Alfar father, she had a special place in her heart for rapists. It was a place full of pain, and expressing that pain was cathartic for her.

  I’m all about helping out my friends.

  I looked around, scanning the milling shadows clustered in two large groups. The placement seemed odd till I remembered the risers. The good people of Harmony must be standing where they’d once been sitting. They’d pace a bit, their faces blank as if sleepwalking. But none of them moved very far.

  I moved away from the rapist toward what looked like a nice elderly lady. Waving my hands in front of her, I shouted. Again my voice was muffled, as if it were underwater. But it was still loud enough that it should have attracted her attention, as should my jumping up and down. Her wide gray gaze never wavered, however, from whatever she was watching in her mind.

  After a second I decided to experiment. I walked forward till my solid mass met her insubstantial one. . . .

  Twirling in my peach gown, his hands on my waist just like I’d always wanted them. We waltzed all night that night, and then he took me home and told me I was his best girl. . . .

  Walking straight through her, I shook off the vestiges of her memory. The clown’s method was genius. I couldn’t think of a more elegant and efficient prison than our own memories. But how to break these people out, especially since I was trapped with them?

  I took a deep breath, putting aside my fear. Panic would get me nowhere. There was an obvious first step I needed to take, and that was to find my backup.

  Walking around the periphery of the crowd, I scanned the faces, looking for my friends. It wasn’t an easy task, as one insubstantial body would blend in with another as they paced back and forth, trapped in little boxes of their own making. After a few increasingly worried passes, I finally saw them at the edge of the crowd. Shar paced, but Moo stood stock-still.

  I ran to them, avoiding colliding with any of the other shadows. I did the whole scream-and-dance thing in front of them, but like the little old lady they didn’t respond.

  It was like they were asleep. Which meant I needed to wake them up.

  And there was only one way I could think of to do that. I had to get in there with their memories and make them see reality.

  But did I have that right? They were my best friends—more like sisters, really. And yet plunging into their memories meant I might see things they hadn’t ever shared, for reasons all their own. These, however, weren’t normal circumstances.

  I had to go in.

  That decided, I had to strategize. After all, my friends’ memories wouldn’t be of high school football games or children’s recitals. I eyed them, speculating. Shar paced restlessly in front of me, her hand sometimes reaching up to brush against her lips or her breasts. Sometimes lower.

  It was pretty obvious what sorts of memories Shar was experiencing.

  Moo, however, hadn’t moved a muscle si
nce I walked up. She stood like a statue, her eyes haunted. God only knows where she was trapped. Knowing her tragic history, it couldn’t be pleasant.

  I made my decision. Shar was a famous over-sharer, so any secrets she had were probably things she knew we’d be squicked out by. I could handle a Tijuana donkey show or a romp with Hanson much more easily than I could Moo’s vast, undoubtedly horrifying secrets.

  I turned and walked right into Shar’s shadow.

  The smell of sex in the air as the girl’s fingers played deep inside me, bringing out the moan lingering on my lips. Her mouth found mine, and then we both turned to the man kneeling in front of us. . . .

  The sensuality of Shar’s memories threatened to drag me under. Her memories of sensation were more powerful than some of my actual experiences, and for a split second I envied her ability to let go and just be . . .

  . . . Now he was moaning, our tongues meeting each other around his hard shaft. . . .

  I pulled myself back, the lure of Shar’s sexuality too powerful. If I let her suck me in (no pun intended), I’d never leave. But I’d once again pulled out (wink wink, nudge nudge) too far, finding myself again standing next to my shadow friend rather than in her memories, where I needed to be.

  I tried again, walking into her . . .

  . . . my lips wrapped around him, the girl kissing down my neck, to my breasts. . . .

  Yanking out, I stood next to Shar. I swore. I needed to be in the dream, but not as Shar. She was occupied, after all, and I needed to get her attention.

  The good thing about having a mom who was a staunch New Agey hippie type was that I knew way too much about things like lucid dreaming. I wondered if I could reverse the process of lucid dreaming to make myself real in Shar’s dream, like lucid dreamers tried to make themselves “real” in their own.

  Clearing my mind of all other thoughts, I imagined myself less a part of Shar and more a voyeur. I’m a watcher, I repeated to myself in a focusing mantra as I slid toward the dream shadow of my friend. The metaphor not only worked, but it was appropriate as my perception shifted so that I watched the three figures writhing on the bed rather than being a part of Shar.

  Concentrating, I willed myself into solidity. I’m not just watching, I told myself. I am here. I am here. I am . . .

  And just like that, I was. I looked down at my own arms and hands as I stood next to the bed.

  Hooting in triumph like a madwoman, I reached out and grabbed Shar’s hair, pulling her mouth off the man.

  “Shar!” I shouted. “Wake up!”

  Shar’s face scrunched at me, like that of a sleeper who didn’t want to wake. Then the walls around us dissolved and we were in a room. Shar was tied to a bed, facedown and spread-eagled, while a man had his proverbial way with her.

  I sighed and walked to the bed, putting my face down to hers. “Shar! Wake up! I’m serious!”

  The walls dissolved again. This time, however, Shar wasn’t naked. To my pleasant surprise, we were all in our favorite dive bar, Smitty’s, laughing so hard we were doubled over. I grinned, remembering that night myself. We’d all been drinking—even Moo, who almost never indulged—after we’d wrapped up a particularly nasty kidnapping case. We’d found the kid, safe, and we felt pretty good about the world and our place in it.

  That had been a great night. And it was nice to know that Moo and I ranked up there with sex, in Shar’s memories.

  That didn’t stop me, however, from once again grabbing her dream ponytail and yanking. I also grabbed her dream drink from the dream table, splashing it right in her dream face.

  She yelped, and this time the walls around us didn’t dissolve into another setting. This time she looked at me, really looked at me, and then at the other Capitola sitting frozen as if her DVD were paused.

  “Cappie?” she asked, reaching a hand out. I knew what she needed. I dipped my head so she could pat my Afro.

  “It is you,” she whispered. “But . . .” She pointed at the other me sitting across from her.

  “That’s a dream me, and you’re a dream you. Trapped in a dream. It’s complicated. What do you remember?”

  “We were in the car. Then you were slapping me.” Her eyes narrowed. She’d get me back for that one, if I got her out of here. That’s how we rolled.

  “I had to slap you,” I said. “You’re trapped in some dream state. Only this isn’t even really you. Your body is still in that town. Do you remember the clown?”

  She frowned, as if something was tickling her memory. I didn’t have time to wait. So I gave her a quick recap and my very succinct plans. “We’ve got to free the souls and kill the clown.”

  “Kill the clown?” she whispered.

  “Yep. But first we have to get everyone out. If I leave your dream, do you think you can come with me?”

  She didn’t answer, just took my hand, her liquid dark eyes latched on mine.

  We had each other’s backs. That’s what made us good.

  So I did what I’d done before when exiting one of the shadow people. I sidestepped to the left, but this time I kept Shar’s hand gripped tightly in mine. For a second there was resistance. Then an audible pop, and then I was standing in front of my best friend. She was still a shadow, though.

  “Shar?” I asked, afraid she’d just stare dumbly at me again.

  Instead she nodded, then made a tight circle, taking in our surroundings and putting everything together.

  “Wow. All these people?”

  “Yes. And there have to be more, all the other people from the other towns.”

  “And Moo?” she asked, turning to our other friend. Moo’s face probably would look calm to a stranger, but we could see her agony.

  “I’m gonna have to do the same thing to her that I did to you.”

  Shar winced. “Need me to go with?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to risk losing you again. Stay here. Stay you.”

  She nodded toward Moo. “Be careful in there. Lord knows what you’ll find.”

  I didn’t answer her. Instead, I walked with purpose at Moo’s shadow.

  “Good luck!” Shar called as I passed into Moo’s memories. . . .

  —

  THE PRIESTESSES PREPARED me for my husband, the man I’d called father until yesterday and now was supposed to call lover. They commented over my body, congratulating me again on my budding breasts, still sore from my first bleeding.

  I ignored them, as I’d been told to. They were merely human and we were gods.

  Sit, who had been my friend before I learned she was beneath me, dared meet my eyes with her sad gaze. I nearly told her how afraid I was, how I hated this, how I wasn’t ready. . . .

  But instead I slapped her for daring to gaze upon my person, as I’d been told to do. I was Emuishere, the consort of the Sun God, and she had no right to defile me with her human eyes.

  Her whole face went red, not just her cheek, and she turned to fold the elaborately beaded shift that would be my bridal gown. . . .

  Drowned in the thousand flooding emotions of Moo’s impending nuptials to her own father, I nearly forgot I wasn’t her, that I was Capitola Jones, and that I was watching.

  I’m watching, I reminded myself, chanting that fact to myself. I’m watching, I’m watching, I’m watching . . .

  And just like that, I was standing beside the cluster of women working on Moo, no longer inside Moo’s actual memories.

  I also wanted to get out of here, desperately. Poor Moo. . . .

  I shouldered my way through the crowd surrounding her. They shifted apart as if doing so unconsciously. Moo still wasn’t aware of anything outside her nightmare.

  “Moo!” I shouted. “Moo!” I reached out to touch her, not wanting to pull her hair or slap her as I had with Shar. She was going through enough. But as my hand contacted her smooth dark flesh, she shuddered convulsively and the room spun. . . .

  We were in a dark room, and I heard grunts from its center. My eyes adjusted eno
ugh that I could see a low dais upon which a man hovered over another figure. He was the one grunting. My heart breaking, I moved forward, knowing I had to get to Moo to get her out of there, but not wanting to see this.

  Her face was turned away, toward where I stood, her eyes open and unseeing. I ignored what was happening and laid a hand upon her cheek.

  “Moo, this is a memory. It was centuries ago. Lifetimes. You’re not that girl anymore, Moo. . . .”

  A tear slid down her cheek, wetting my hand. I wanted to kill the bastard who’d fathered her, but before I could move, the room slid away again and there was Moo, a girl still, wearing a white shift covered in blood. She was weeping, holding a battered, bloody dagger.

  I hadn’t been the only one to want to kill their dad. Moo had, too, and she’d gone ahead and done it.

  “Moo,” I said, both hands on her cheeks now, willing her to look at me. “Moo, these are memories, you’ve got to focus on my voice. . . .”

  Again the room went black, and we were in that antechamber, the girls dressing her. Again Moo slapped her friend. Before I could reach her, her memories put her right back in that bed, enduring her first rape. Then we were back in that corner, her bloody fingers trembling on the knife.

  So maybe the gentle approach wasn’t working.

  I picked her up from that corner, her child’s body depressingly light in my arms. She was too small to be suffering any of this. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t shake the shit out of her. Not till her teeth were rattling in her head and her dark brown eyes had finally met mine, widening in recognition, did I stop. I’d do anything to get her out of her own mind, short of killing her.

  “Cap?”

  “Yes. It’s me. And you need to wake the fuck up.” My voice was rough. I wanted to hug her and cry for her and murder things for her, all at the same time.

  The room started to waver again, so she got another shaking.

  “None of that, Moo. This is a memory. You have to stay with me.”

  “A memory?”

  “Yes, and it’s over. You’re not this kid anymore.”