Finally, once Capelli had done everything he could, he allowed himself to take another nap. Rowdy wasn’t too pleased with that decision, and he spent a good five minutes whining by the door, before curling up in front of it.
When Capelli awoke it was evening, and time to work on Locke again, before fixing a large dinner that he shared with Rowdy. It seemed as if Locke was dreaming, because he spoke occasionally, and even laughed out loud once.
After darkness fell, Capelli opened the door and stuck his head out. There was a scattering of clouds, but the moon was up, and threw a ghostly glow over the land. It was cold, damned cold, and Capelli figured it would freeze later.
Rowdy stood in the opening for a moment as his supersensitive nostrils sampled the night air and his ears stood at attention. Then he was gone, and Capelli knew better than to try and call him back. Rowdy was tired of being cooped up and eager to hunt.
Capelli wanted to stretch his legs too. But first there were chores to take care of. He took a broken shovel he’d found earlier and the Rossmore out to a spot a couple of hundred feet from the shelter and dug a hole. After dumping a load of garbage into the depression, Capelli covered it with a thick layer of dirt. Because if he could smell it, then Howlers could too, and the last thing Capelli needed was to have a couple of those monsters hanging around.
Once he was done, it was time to fetch more water from the river. So Capelli armed himself with the shotgun, two buckets, a grimy towel, a bar of Lava soap, and some clean clothes before making his way to the stream.
After placing everything on the bank within easy reach, Capelli removed his clothes, took the bar of soap, and waded out into the freezing water. It wasn’t deep enough to swim in. But he could sit down, and that was a shock.
Working quickly, Capelli scrubbed his skin with the highly abrasive soap, rinsed it off, and hurried to wash his hair. Then he stood up quickly and made a grab for his towel. The moment he was dry enough to put them on, Capelli slipped into clean clothes and a warm jacket.
Once he’d filled both buckets with water, he returned to the shelter, where he took a look at Locke before returning outside. Not for any particular purpose, but to enjoy the night air, and escape the confines of the shelter.
As Capelli sat on the mound of earth over the shelter and looked upwards he saw three bright lights streak across the blue-black sky. He wondered if they were meteorites but knew they weren’t. Not only did the Chimera own the Earth, they owned the sky, and as far as he could tell, they owned the future, too.
It took Locke the better part of three days to die.
When the end came, it came quietly; Locke simply stopped breathing. Capelli might have been able to resuscitate him, but knew it would be pointless if he couldn’t solve the real problem, which was the raging infection that had taken over the big man’s body.
Capelli would have needed more than a day to dig a proper grave. And he had no way of knowing who or what might catch up with him while he did it. Not to mention the fact that he would have had a hard time moving the corpse by himself.
So Capelli closed Locke’s eyelids, arranged his body in a peaceful repose, and went looking for something to write with. He found half a can of black paint in the storage unit, plus a still-serviceable brush, and took them back to what was about to become a crypt.
Capelli wrote the epitaph in military-style block letters on the wall directly above the body. Miss October smiled as she watched from across the room. “HERE LIES ALVIN LOCKE. A GOOD MAN, FORCED TO LIVE IN BAD TIMES, WHO WAS ON HIS WAY TO DO GOOD THINGS WHEN THE CHIMERA KILLED HIM.”
Afterwards he sorted through Locke’s belongings and took what he could use. Food mostly, since Capelli had no use for .30-.30 cartridges, or clothes that were way too big for him. The money belt, however, was still heavy with gold coins, and his to keep if he wanted to do so.
But at some point over the last few days he had made the decision. Though he could not deliver his client to Haven, Oklahoma, he could deliver the money belt—and take a look at the community at the same time. Maybe it was just another group of pathetic survivors eking out a day-to-day existence while they waited to die. Or maybe Haven was something more. Locke had thought so, and Capelli was determined to find out.
So Capelli tidied up, left the rifle and the supplies he couldn’t use in plain sight on the card table, and made his way up the stairs, where Rowdy was sitting with one leg up in the air, nibbling at his fleas.
Having lowered the door into place, Capelli turned towards the access road, and the highway beyond. He figured he was pretty close to Hays, Kansas. After that it would take a good six or seven days of walking to reach what had been Salina, Kansas, and was currently referred to as “Tank Town” by runners who had been down that way.
It was early morning, a good time to travel. As Rowdy led the way, and Capelli followed along behind, farms gradually gave way to light industry and a scattering of houses. But rather than enter Hays, and be forced to deal with whatever might be lurking there, Capelli elected to give the city a wide berth by swinging south. He crossed a set of railroad tracks, and pushed down into farm country, before heading east again.
That took him into the early evening, when the weather turned bad and he sought refuge in a barn. One end of the structure was filled with pods. They made raspy breathing sounds, and with no way to know when they might pop, Capelli couldn’t stay there. He could set the barn on fire, however—which he did before going back out into the rain. Capelli knew the flames could attract some stinks, but it was a chance he was willing to take rather than leave the pods intact.
Half an hour of walking brought him to a road, a sizable junkyard, and the opportunity to hole up in the back of an old bread truck. And with Rowdy acting as his alarm system he felt reasonably safe. Rain rattled on the roof as he ate cold beans out of a can. Then, after finishing his meal, he brushed his teeth. The floor was hard but the sleeping bag was warm. Sleep came quickly.
The next day dawned bright and clear. Capelli made breakfast for himself, packed his belongings, and was on the road by eight. He followed it north to Route 40, where he took a right-hand turn, and continued east.
Following the highway was a dangerous thing to do. Both the Chimera and humans used it. But cross-country travel was often extremely slow due to the need to traverse occasionally difficult terrain, cross rivers, and cut through barbed-wire fences. So having chosen speed over safety, Capelli was on high alert as the ribbon of highway carried him through rolling grasslands.
And that was why he spotted both the body and the child from a half-mile away.
The sighting was enough to send Capelli off the road into a cluster of trees. A low whistle brought Rowdy in, and the dog lay panting at his side as Capelli freed his binoculars. The body that lay sprawled on the highway was clearly that of a woman. A pack was strapped to her back and a rifle lay on the pavement next to her. There were no obvious signs of injury—though that didn’t rule out a bullet wound. But why shoot her, and leave the rifle? No, an illness of some kind seemed more likely. The little girl, who Capelli judged to be three or four years old, was squatting next to the body as if waiting for it to come back to life.
It was a pitiful sight. But Capelli had seen a lot of pitiful sights and wasn’t about to move forward without a careful examination of the surrounding countryside.
However, having quartered the ground ahead, he came up empty. So with the Marksman at the ready, Capelli left the protection of the trees and returned to the highway. The sun was past its zenith by then, so his shadow pointed east, and an intermittent breeze ruffled the grass to either side of the road as Capelli approached the body.
The little girl looked scared, but also determined to remain right where she was. She had black hair worn in a bowl cut, a grimy face, and was dressed in raggedy clothes. “Is that your mother?” Capelli asked as he came to a stop.
The girl said, “Yes,” Rowdy growled, and Capelli saw motion out of the corner of his
eye. He turned in that direction as a man rose from his hiding place. He was wearing a hat made out of freshly cut grass and a burlap bag to which more green stuff was attached. The apparition had already raised his weapon, and Capelli was still bringing his rifle to bear when the scarecrow fired on him.
The oncoming bolt looked like a black dot at first. Capelli was formulating a plan to duck beneath it, when the ball-tipped missile hit him in the forehead. The force of the blow knocked him off his feet and dumped him onto his back. Capelli caught a glimpse of blue sky, and felt a brief moment of pain, before the voice had its say. Hey, Capelli … What happened to rule six? “Mind your own business?” Then a tidal wave of blackness rolled him under.
Capelli was somewhere a long way off when the bucket of water hit his face. The voice sounded as if it were coming to him through a tunnel. “Get up.”
Capelli’s eyelids felt like they were glued shut. He forced them open. The face hanging over him was blurry. He blinked and it came into focus. The man’s forehead and cheeks were covered with tattoos. When he smiled, Capelli saw that his teeth had been filed down into points.
“Aha,” the man said, “there you are. There’s a bump on your forehead, but you’ll survive. Now get up.”
Capelli felt dirt under his right hand, turned, and attempted to stand. Metal rattled, something brought him up short, and he fell. The tattooed man laughed, and Capelli felt a humiliating mix of shame and fear. That was when Capelli realized that he was wearing a metal collar to which a chain was attached. And, with the exception of his clothing, his possessions were missing. Including Locke’s money belt. All taken from him so effortlessly that it was embarrassing.
“They call me Inkskin,” the man said. In addition to his face, almost every inch of the man’s bare torso was covered with tattoos. “What’s your name?”
“Capelli.”
“Well, Capelli … It’s time to get up off your ass.” Inkskin had a Bullseye Mark III, which he used as a pointer.
Capelli swore, lurched to his feet, and swayed uncertainly. His head hurt, blood pounded in his ears, and the late afternoon sun felt hot. He was standing in what looked like a gravel pit. That impression was reinforced by the presence of a downward-slanting chute, an ancient road grader, and an old shack. All of which were a fit.
What looked odd was the open-sided circus wagon parked about thirty feet away. The brightly colored paint was faded, but he could read the name “Zenda Brothers Circus” painted across the side of it, and could see the creature within. But it wasn’t a lion, tiger, or bear. It was a Steelhead!
“Meet El Diablo,” Inkskin said, “but don’t get too close. He’s hungry.”
As if to emphasize the point, the Chimera made a horrible screeching sound and rattled the bars. The Steelhead had a hairless skull, six golden eyes, and a powerful physique. It was dressed in scraps of Chimeran armor, and Capelli could smell the creature from thirty feet away.
“That’s enough gawking,” Inkskin said. “You can get acquainted with El Diablo later! Who knows? Maybe you’ll get to dance with him!”
Apparently the guard thought that was funny, because he laughed as he gave the leash a vicious jerk, and led Capelli away. The runner searched his surroundings for Rowdy, but saw no sign of him, and wondered what that meant. Had the dog been able to escape? Or had he been shot? He had no way of knowing.
Inkskin led Capelli past the wagon into a messy campsite. Boxes, trunks, and bags were scattered all around a central fire pit. The “dead” woman was seated on a camp chair, combing the little girl’s hair as Capelli walked past. Neither one of them so much as glanced his way.
A group of raggedy-looking men were seated in the shadow thrown by the shed. All wore neck collars and sat to either side of a heavy chain. Some of the prisoners were asleep, but the rest regarded Capelli with dull-eyed interest.
“Meet your new friends!” Inkskin said cheerfully, as he padlocked Capelli’s leash to a heavy chain. A second guard was watching over the prisoners. He was wearing an orange wig, white face paint, and a red nose. An inverted mouth made it appear that the clown was permanently sad. “Get some rest,” Inkskin advised, as Capelli took his place on the ground. “You’re going to need it.” The loose gravel made a crunching sound as he walked away.
“He’s right about that,” the man sitting opposite Capelli said. “My name is Escobar—but most people call me Bar.”
Bar had short black hair, brown eyes, and high cheekbones. Like the rest of the prisoners, he was unshaven. Chains rattled as they shook hands.
“My name is Capelli. What’s with the circus thing?”
Bar shrugged. “You’re looking at what remains of a family-owned circus. Back before the stinks came it employed about fifty people. They had a dozen exotic animals in those days, plus twenty vehicles, and all sorts of equipment. Now they’re down to the single wagon. Ain’t that right, Bam-Bam?”
The clown nodded. “That’s right, donkey.”
Capelli looked around. “So how do they move the wagon? With horses?”
Bar shook his head. “Hell, no … Horses are expensive. We haul the wagon. That’s why they call us donkeys.”
“And you’d better do your share,” a man sitting nearby said. He had black hair, penetrating eyes, and dark skin.
“Loomis don’t like slackers,” Bar observed. “But his bark is worse than his bite. The ugly-looking piece of work next to him is Askin. Then there’s Valova, Omata, Nix, Kilner, and Ganson …” And so it went until Bar had named twenty-two men other than himself.
“So,” the man named Omata said, “which scam did they run on you? The woman who blackjacks you in the middle of the night? The woman lying in the middle of the road? Or the woman with the sick child?”
“The woman lying in the middle of the road.”
Omata nodded soberly. “Alfonso is pretty good with that crossbow, isn’t he?”
“He’s very good,” Capelli conceded.
“And he’s a crack shot with a rifle and pistol, too,” Bar added. “The woman’s name is Leena. She’s Alfonso’s wife, and the little girl is their daughter.”
“Damn the little bitch to hell,” Nix put in bitterly.
“He fell for the sick daughter routine,” Bar explained. “Leena blackjacked me in the middle of the night. But the two of us had a very good time first. I’ll bet she didn’t mention that to Alfonso!”
“And you’d better hope she doesn’t,” Bam-Bam put in darkly. “He’d put a bullet in your head. Then we’d have to find some other idiot to replace you.”
“Which brings us to the Steelhead,” Capelli said. “How did they capture it?”
“Same way they got you,” Bar replied. “Leena was lying in the middle of the road, the stink comes strolling down the highway, and pow! Alfonso bags the sonofabitch.”
“Of course, that was before our time,” Ganson said. “All of the donkeys from back in those days are dead.”
Capelli frowned. “Two dozen men? How come the mortality rate is so high?”
Loomis glanced over at Bam-Bam and saw that the guard had stepped away to take a leak. He was careful to keep his voice down. “Malnutrition and disease. But every time Ringmaster Jack can assemble an audience, he selects one of the donkeys to fight El Diablo.”
“And El Diablo always wins,” Bar observed darkly. “That’s how the stink gets most of its meat.”
Capelli remembered Inkskin’s comment. Something about dancing with El Diablo. Now it made sense. “Has anyone ever escaped?”
Bam-Bam had returned by then. “No,” the guard said. “No one ain’t never escaped. But feel free to try if you want to. I could use the target practice.”
Bar smiled. His teeth were yellow. “Welcome to the circus.”
Three long, hard nights had passed since Capelli had been captured by members of the Zenda Brothers Circus. Ringmaster Jack, who was generally referred to as “Master Jack,” wanted to rack up at least fifteen miles per day. In order
to maintain that pace it was necessary for the donkeys to work extremely hard.
Not only was the circus wagon heavy in and of itself, but Capelli figured that El Diablo, the corpulent Ringmaster, Leena, her daughter, and all the luggage tied to the wagon’s roof represented at least a ton of additional weight. All of which made it difficult to drag the wagon up even a gentle slope.
But with Master Jack wielding a long, thin whip from his seat at the front of the wagon, plus Bam-Bam the clown and Inkskin pacing along to either side, the slaves had no choice but to throw themselves against the four-man crosspieces. So each night seemed like an eternity of strenuous effort, punctuated by the sting of Master Jack’s whip and occasional blows from the guards. Cold rations were served at about one in the morning.
That was when Capelli thought about Rowdy. The big mix was dead. That was what Bam-Bam claimed, anyway. But Capelli wasn’t so sure. Some kind of dog had been nosing around the camp the previous day and Inkskin had taken a shot at it. All Capelli could do was hope. And more than that, plan. Because even if no one had ever escaped from the Zenda Brothers Circus, that didn’t mean it was impossible.
Meanwhile, as the donkeys slaved, Alfonso ranged well ahead of the wagon. He was mounted on a golden palomino and had taken to carrying Capelli’s Marksman rifle in a fancy buckskin scabbard. The sharpshooter’s job was to act as a scout and drum up business. A mostly hit-or-miss process that relied on word of mouth, posters tacked to message trees, and a certain amount of luck. Like arriving in a tiny town called Hamley, Kansas, just as a revival meeting was about to take place. Such an event could easily pull in a hundred people from the surrounding countryside, most of whom were starved for entertainment.
In order to take advantage of the opportunity, the donkeys had been forced to work through the night and well into the next afternoon. The plan was to stay in Hamley for two days, so long as the Chimera left the town alone. Something the exhausted slaves would have welcomed had it not been for the high price that one of them was going to pay. A stop meant that one of them would be forced to fight El Diablo—and everybody knew how that would turn out.
A Hole in the Sky Page 10