There was a fire under the collapsed roadway. Maybe several, as the fuel tanks of crushed cars and trucks were ruptured, the kinetic energy of the earthquake and the overpass collapse converting to heat, enough for ignition.
Bob dropped to the ground. He had to help, like he had helped eighty-three years before, when the city had been a whole lot younger.
As he drew nearer, he felt a connection with the people he lived among. Here they were, in the middle of hell, the collapsed overpass in rubble around them. Another tremor and more could come down, killing them all. And yet here they were, scrambling out of cars, helping people up, digging through the rubble with their bare hands. As the trapped victims screamed, the rescuers – men and women in business suits, in jogging shorts, in jeans and skirts; the ordinary folk of San Francisco – shouted encouragement, shouted that they were coming, that everything would be OK.
Bob gently eased himself to the front, the air thick with smoke and dust. A couple of rescuers noticed him, noticed his chiseled torso, sweaty, dusty, and nodded. Here was a strong young man to help move rubble.
Bob pulled two triangular shards of roadway clear, then got a grip on a huge concrete slab about the size of a small aircraft’s wing, and lifted, revealing a large pocket beneath, half- choked with rubble. Just like before, so many years ago, nobody paid attention to his superhuman strength. The rescuers around him surged forward, reaching in to clear debris and get to the people trapped within. Flame licked at Bob’s bare feet. Nobody noticed.
One of the rescuers yelled something and was dragged into the hole. Others grabbed his feet and tugged him back, but their hands slipped on his pants. One shoe flew off, and then he vanished into the rubble.
Bob swore and lifted the slab higher. Then he saw, through the smoke.
Eyes, red, glowing.
Black hands reached out of the rubble. Greasy with soot, they waved like wheat in a field, fingers splayed, reaching, reaching. Bob yelled out for everyone to get clear, not to touch them, but nobody was listening. People reached for the black hands, and when they did, the black hands pulled them back into the rubble. People pulled, yelled for help, screamed in pain, and Bob stood, watching the red eyes in the smoke.
Something was moving. Again, like it had before. A power, down below. A thing beneath stirring in its sleep.
Bob held the huge fragment of roadway aloft with one hand, and reached down with the other, pulling the last trapped rescuer back by the waistband of his jeans. The people around him stood back, looking up at Bob, standing in the rubble in his bare feet, holding the slab up in the air with just one hand. He waved at them to get back, and this time they paid attention.
From the gap in the rubble came more grasping hands as the black things began to pull themselves out of the burned ground. They reached for the air, their red eyes burning.
Then Bob dropped the slab on top of them, sending up a billowing cloud of dust.
It was happening again.
Bob shouted for everyone to stand clear. They followed his instruction, no doubt fearful that more of the road was about to collapse. As the crowd backed away, Bob pushed down on the slab he’d dropped, and held it there, in case its massive weight was not enough to keep the golems trapped beneath.
Bob wished others were here, that there was no Agreement, no Retreat. But he was alone, and the city needed him again. Not just to rescue people from the calamity.
Once again, the city needed his protection.
Satisfied that the golems beneath the slab were crushed back into the dirt and ash from which they had been spawned, Bob called over his shoulder that the roadway was safe.
Work could begin again.
GODS OF THE MIDWAY
— XXV —
SHARON MEADOW, SAN FRANCISCO
TODAY
This was it. The worst had happened, and it was the end of The Magical Zanaar’s Traveling Caravan of Arts and Sciences.
Nadine tapped at the laptop with little interest, scrolling through a vast spreadsheet of circus finances. They’d been doing well – very well, in fact. The San Francisco shows were their best ever, helped by the terrific location in Golden Gate Park and the addition of not one but two new acts – the Stonefire dance troupe and the mystery man himself, Highwire. Where Newhaven had found them, she didn’t know, but they were box office magic.
And now? Now it was all for shit. The last show had been a disaster. Jack, the Magical Zanaar himself, had run through his lines without any performance at all, like he was reading them off a script. The rest of the show was lackluster at best. Jack missed his cues, and when Jan and John started their trapeze act and it became clear that the star of the show, Highwire, wasn’t there, people started leaving. David and the clowns filled another gap left by the absence of Kara and Sara and then Stonefire came on.
Nadine watched from the sidelines as the Celtic dancers entered the arena, not dressed in their customary leather costumes but naked, covered in black dirt and ash. David appeared by her side, yelling in her ear that they should stop the show, that they were going to lose their permit. Gone was the choreographed dancing and acrobatics. Stonefire danced to a simple, repetitive beating drum, a relentless rhythm that lacked any musicality. On and on the drum sounded, as Stonefire twitched and stamped their feet.
People started leaving, taking their children with them. Some accosted circus staff at the entrance, telling the ushers that they hadn’t paid to see this kind of show.
Then someone screamed, and the atmosphere in the Big Top changed. Stonefire had spread out, and one member had grabbed someone from the audience. The spectator tried to pull away, but the dancer yanked him bodily into the show. David and the clowns stepped into the arena. The dancer let go of his unwilling volunteer and tackled David, and the pair crashed to the ground. People in the crowd screamed, and then it was a stampede to the exits.
Jack watched it all from the shadows, oblivious to the chaos. He ignored Nadine when she tried to talk to him, didn’t even flinch when she slapped him across the face. Nadine waved at the lighting desk. They got the message and brought the house lights up.
The drumbeat stopped. David picked himself up and scrambled to Nadine, his chin wet with blood. Stonefire gathered around Malcolm. He stared at Nadine and David.
“Get out!” Nadine yelled. “Get out before I call the fucking police. This circus is fucking over.”
The group had stood a moment longer. Then Malcolm had snarled something in a language Nadine hadn’t heard them use before – Gaelic? – and the group had shuffled out.
That was last night. Nadine had locked herself in the Winnebago since then. Someone had knocked on the door – Jack, she guessed – but she hadn’t answered it.
Nadine thought about the stolen cable and felt sick. Jack had insisted they not report the theft, confident (he said) that they could handle it internally. Jack had insisted it was nothing to do with the serial killer who was now dominating the news; in a city the size of San Francisco, steel cable would be plentiful. Jack had been right, of course.
But now things had gone to shit, and Nadine wasn’t so sure there wasn’t a connection.
She tapped at the laptop again. The circus was closed, but… could they retool, rebrand, open next season, somewhere else? They’d need new acts – including a new ringmaster – need to get financing from somewhere to pay out the current contracts. But the show could go on. She and Jack were finished, that was for sure. But the circus was her livelihood. She ran the business side of things well. She enjoyed it. It provided jobs. It found talent. Maybe, eventually, when the sick feeling had passed, the show could go on.
Couldn’t it?
A drumbeat sounded, once, twice. Nadine looked up, moved to the window as the drumming picked up. She knew that sound.
Stonefire. The circus was in crisis, had fallen apart because of them, and they were fucking starting again.
It was a hot afternoon. Nadine stood in the motorhome’s doorway, squintin
g into the sun. The drumming was a fast beat now, and was joined by voices chanting, singing.
Smoke began to rise from over the tops of the tents. They’d damn well lit their fire.
Nadine hopped down the steps, the end of her rope most certainly reached.
They were dancing in front of the fire, and Nadine was ready to start yelling when she noticed the group looked larger than it should. Stonefire was two dozen dancers, male and female, plus partners and a few children along for the ride. But the group in front of the bonfire was much, much larger, twice that at least. Nadine realized the numbers were made up of the rest of the circus acts – the clowns, led by David the Harlequin, the jugglers, acrobats, and trapeze artists. The non-performing workers too. They’d all joined the Celtic group, even wearing the same costumes. Nadine shook her head, frowning. Only Jack and Joel weren’t among them, as far as she could see. Sara and Kara too. The pair of gymnasts hadn’t come back.
The bonfire was just catching, the teetering stack of old shipping pallets bought cheap from warehouses down by the water making an effective chimney as the flames took hold from the bottom. Maybe it was Nadine’s imagination, or the fact that the day was already quite warm, but the fire didn’t feel as hot as it should have.
The members – new and old – of Stonefire looked a mess. She’d noticed them get worse over the last week – wearing their leathers around the clock, even sleeping in them, lying around their bonfire in the open. The costumes left little to the imagination – men and women included – but the group was now so dirty, covered in black ash, that it was hard to tell where the costumes ended and bare flesh began.
They were all taking it a little too seriously. Nadine felt a little odd in her gray suit, but at least she was a professional, unlike these losers.
“Hey!” she yelled. “What the fuck?” She stepped forward, from the dry grass to the blackened, burned ground. As her shoes kicked up the ash, she felt a tingle, a vibration through the soles of her feet. She wasn’t religious, not at all, but she had the strangest feeling she was walking on sacred ground, like there was something in the air, a physical presence, someone… watching. She pushed the thought from her mind and folded her arms as Malcolm turned from the fire and looked at her. His face was covered in black ash – deliberately covered, Nadine realized – and when he smiled, his teeth formed a bright white line across his face.
She shook her head, waved at the bonfire.
“What the hell are you doing? There’s no show, not any more. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re kinda out of business here.”
Malcolm laughed. “We prepare our altar, woman.”
Nadine paused. Woman? Good lord above. This was getting beyond ridiculous.
“An altar. Jesus, Malcolm, you can cut the whole tribal bullshit now. And put the fucking fire out. We need to start packing the tents up.”
There was something wrong with Malcolm’s smile. It was cruel and knowing. Arrogant.
“Malcolm,” said Nadine, stepping closer, lowering her voice. “We’re finished, OK? The circus is finished. Show’s over.”
Malcolm didn’t move. It was like he wasn’t even breathing, and Nadine wasn’t quite sure he was blinking either. She looked around, at the other members of his troupe. The drumming had stopped along with the dancing. They now formed a circle around her and Malcolm. Still, unmoving. She turned around to face them.
“Look, I know. This isn’t good for anyone, believe me. But Mr Newhaven and I need to talk about it, and then we’ll discuss the future of the circus with you all. We want this to work out as best we can.”
There was no reaction. The dancers stood in the circle, staring at her. Nadine held her hand up over her brow, shading the sun. Were they not breathing either? She shook her head and turned back to Malcolm.
“The business of your world is of no concern to Belenus.” Malcolm’s lip curled into a snarl. Behind him, the bonfire flared, flames as tall as the Big Top licking into the blue sky. Then he turned around and walked toward the blaze.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Nadine followed Malcolm to the fire. “Hey, I’m talking to you!”
Malcolm stopped. Nadine tapped the big man on his back. His leather jerkin was moist, slick, and left a black residue on her fingertips. She rubbed it between her finger and thumb, which only spread the greasy substance more. He stood and stared at the fire, ignoring her.
“Fine,” she said. “Fuck, whatever. Enjoy your goddamn fire. We’re finished, but hey, don’t let that stop you.”
She spun around, but there were dancers right behind her. She jerked back in surprise, then tried to sidestep. They matched her movement, holding their arms wide like they were herding a lost sheep.
“Get the fuck out of my way.”
“We are not ended, woman.”
Nadine turned around. Malcolm was facing the fire, his arms outstretched, embracing it.
“We are reborn.”
The feeling of presence was back, stronger now. A vibration, the ground humming like an electricity transformer.
“Where there is death there is power,” said Malcolm. “Where there is power there is life.”
The humming made Nadine’s jaw hurt. The drumming started again, then the dancing, as the members of Stonefire and the rest of the circus began to orbit the bonfire. The three dancers behind her stamped their feet, chanting in what Nadine assumed was Gaelic.
Malcolm stepped up to the fire and fell to his knees. Nadine wanted to reach forward, make him stop, pull him back, but she couldn’t move. Malcolm was in the edge of the fire, and it cracked and spat around him, showering his shoulders in embers that glowed brighter than they should have in the afternoon sun.
He began to dig, clawing at the earth. It was dry and came away in great handfuls. Very quickly there were two piles of carbon and dirt on either side of him.
Then, as Nadine watched, he stood, and reached down with one arm. From the hole, a black arm emerged, grabbed Malcolm’s, and Malcolm pulled.
It was a woman, young and small. She was naked, although covered entirely in black ash. Her eyes were brilliant against her blackened face as she blinked in the light. She smiled, her teeth white, white.
Nadine shook her head and forced herself to move, to run, away from the madness, away from something that couldn’t be happening. But all she managed to do was trip backward, falling into the three dancers behind her. They grabbed her arms, held her up.
Malcolm kissed the girl’s black hand, and turned to the dancers. The drumming reached a crescendo, and then fell silent. The dancers stopped moving.
The girl glanced at Nadine. It was Sara. She tilted her head as she looked at Nadine. Then she looked up at Malcolm.
“I am Belenus,” she said. “We are Belenus, and Belenus rises.”
The leader of Stonefire laughed, throwing his head back. Sara stepped over to Nadine, her black, smoking body a beautiful horror, her hair matted with something dark and sticky. She reached out to Nadine.
Nadine passed out.
— XXVI —
SAN FRANCISCO
TODAY
“What will happen to him, do you think?”
Bob didn’t answer. He and Benny had been walking half an hour, searching in vain for Ted. Benny had made a mistake leaving Ted in the apartment, but Bob thought maybe he shouldn’t be quite so hard on her. Benny’s entire family tree had carried the spirit of Tangun the Founder through it, down generation after generation, century after century, until such a time as the god was needed on Earth again. That time had come, and that responsibility had fallen on Benny’s shoulders.
Then again, from what Bob had seen, Tangun himself didn’t seem particularly cooperative. Bob considered him a friend now but, honestly, he hadn’t really known him that well, back then. The gods and goddesses numbered in the thousands, and while they were all kith and kin, there were plenty Bob – Kanaloa – hadn’t dealt with. Kali. Sousson-Pannan. Gozer the Gozerian. Olorun
. And Tangun too, until recently, at least. After the rest had left. And there were still things he didn’t understand about the warrior king.
Bob wondered what it was like for Benny. She was just a regular girl, with no particular choice in the matter, her family blessed – or cursed – by the burden of their ancestors. Tangun had left the world like They all had. And, it seemed, like the others had fallen a little out of touch.
And if hadn’t been for the power burning Ted up from the inside, then Tangun’s little sleep command would have been just fine.
“Bob?”
Bob stopped. Benny too.
Bob smiled. “Sorry. What will happen to Ted? I guess the best option is if the power just kills him.”
“Dude,” said Benny, taking a step closer. They had stopped in the middle of the street, outside a clothing store. In the window was a display of vintage denim jeans, matching Bob’s own pair. “That’s the best option? What’s the worst?”
“The worst would be if he loses control completely. At the moment, Ted is still there, somewhere. He has, what, fifty percent possession?”
“Maybe less.”
“Right, maybe less. If the power takes him over completely, then what? He becomes a god. A new god. One who doesn’t know what he can do.”
“Oh,” said Benny.
“Right, ‘oh’. And it might be academic, anyway.” He looked down at the sidewalk, then glanced sideways at Benny.
“Oh,” said Benny again. “This… thing. You think it’s waking up, for real?”
Bob sucked in his cheeks, then nodded.
“And when it does,” said Benny, “there goes the city, right?”
Bob fixed Benny with a stare. “Maybe not just the city.”
Benny’s eyes went wide. “OK. So… why can’t you just flex a bit of muscle? Find Ted, stop the whatever-it-is from waking up? You’re a god too and–”
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