Carnies Page 20

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ he asked.

  Rachel’s face betrayed a complex combination of emotions. There was sadness there, and regret, but also fear. ‘I’m so sorry, Paul,’ she said, ‘but when you returned to the camp, we assumed you had... oh, no...’ She covered her face with her hands and began to cry.

  It was the first time Paul had seen her so vulnerable, so... human, and it affected him deeply. He hauled himself to his feet, using the cane to get up.

  ‘You thought I was talking about someone else,’ he said, as she continued to sob through her fingers. And then he knew, the answer obvious. ‘You thought I was talking about Amos.’

  Carl nodded, abashed and embarrassed, but still angry. ‘He went missing last night. Went into town for supplies and never came back. We tracked him, and found signs of a struggle. With one man.’ He looked sharply at Paul, still a little suspicious.

  ‘Show me,’ Paul said, his voice almost emotionless. He knew what they would find, yet couldn’t quite believe it. He had to see, to know for sure.

  The big man looked at Rachel, one eyebrow raised. She didn’t look up, simply nodded. He shrugged. ‘Okay, come with me.’

  Paul followed Carl as he stalked into the woods. He had to struggle to keep up. Every second step provoked another jolt of pain up his leg. It was like the bad old days. Alvan stayed behind, so after a minute the men were alone. Paul wondered if Carl would take him to where it happened, or perhaps just take advantage of the solitude and rid the carnival of an annoyance. He was sure no one would ever find the body. But at this stage, Paul wouldn’t have minded that much.

  They walked for an agonising quarter hour along a muddy trail that would have been invisible to a normal person’s eye. But for Paul it was as clear as a four-lane highway. Some crushed grass here, a broken twig there... even though Amos’ scent had been well and truly washed away by the night’s rains, he’d have had no trouble following the path even without Carl leading the way.

  The big man stopped. Paul stumbled a little in an attempt not to bump into his back as the end of his cane sank deep into the mud. He pulled it out with some difficulty, then looked around.

  ‘This is it,’ Carl muttered, his voice trembling with rage.

  Paul looked around the tiny clearing and could see exactly what had happened with a clarity that frightened him. Even after the damage caused by the showers overnight, the story was written in the marks on the ground, the scuffs against the trees. Amos had walked this way, and had been attacked by someone hiding in the bushes, upwind of him. He’d been taken by surprise. There was still blood mixed with the dirt, mostly Amos’, by the smell of it, but a little of his attacker’s too. They had fought, but the fight had been short and brutal. Something had been used to make it so. Despite the brevity of his own struggle with the alpha the previous day, he knew that a serious fight between two of his kind would be long and bloody. Paul knew that there had to be an inequality involved. And he knew what it was.

  ‘Silver,’ he muttered.

  Carl nodded. ‘I can still taste it in the air. Bitter.’

  One set of footprints left the scene. But these were much deeper than they were upon arrival. He was carrying Amos away.

  ‘Did you follow these?’ Paul asked, but he already knew the answer. Of course they had.

  ‘Whoever it was walked down the hill there, to the creek,’ Carl said. ‘We lost the trail there.’

  ‘Shit.’ Paul knelt down and picked up a handful of the bloody earth, holding it close to his nose.

  ‘It’s not one of us,’ Carl said, frowning. ‘The smell of the blood is new to us.’

  ‘Not to me,’ Paul said, numb. In fact, his nostrils had been filled with the scent of it just two nights earlier. He dropped the soil and stood up, brushing his hands against his trousers.

  ‘Your brother?’ Paul nodded.

  In a blur, he found himself flung against a nearby tree, hitting it so hard his vision sparkled. His breath left him in a single explosive gasp. Carl was holding him against the trunk with both hands flat against his chest, face red as beetroot.

  ‘Damn you,’ he hissed, eyes narrowed. ‘This is your fault!’

  Paul could only nod again.

  He was pinned there for a few moments more, then Carl let him go suddenly and turned away, walked up to another tree and punched it. Time and time again, the big man’s fist slammed into the wood, and with each punch the dull cracking sound got louder, and wetter.

  Paul knew that it wasn’t just timber giving way beneath the blows.

  ‘Carl,’ he said, still catching his breath.

  The man continued to pummel the tree. There was blood splattering now, leaving trails on the bark like red gum.

  ‘Carl,’ he said again.

  Carl stopped and turned around. His hand was torn and bleeding, and Paul could see fragments of bone sticking out of the ragged flesh of the knuckles. But he didn’t seem to feel the pain. His face was stricken, the dirt on his cheeks streaked with tears.

  ‘Come on,’ Paul said in a soft voice. ‘Rachel’s going to need you. She’s going to need all the carnies.’

  The big man looked at Paul without understanding.

  ‘And anyway,’ he continued, ‘Alvan and I have to go back to town. He wants to visit someone.’

  ‘Alvan... he knows where he is?’ Carl asked, his voice shaking. This time, it didn’t much matter who ‘he’ was. Find David, and they’d find Amos.

  ‘No,’ Paul admitted, as they walked back along the trail towards the camp. ‘But he thinks he knows someone who might.’

  -34-

  David walked out of the sleeping area of the motel room and into the tiny bathroom, whistling a happy tune. He carried a leather bag a couple of feet long, which jangled with each step. It had certainly been a long night and he hadn’t been to sleep. It was the first time he’d done that since his early twenties, but he wasn’t feeling even a little bit tired. Quite the opposite, in fact. He felt energised, vital, as if his veins coursed with electricity instead of blood.

  Speaking of blood... he put down the bag, reached down to the sink, turned on the taps, then washed his hands under the running water. First with his leather gloves on, then without. The water turned a dull red, and streams of blood spiralled down the drain, carrying dried brown flecks with them. He smiled as he watched them circle and vanish.

  It certainly had been a long night.

  He looked up at his reflection, and was a little startled by what confronted him there. The hair had grown back on his face, of course, but more had changed. His nose had withdrawn into itself, flattening against his face, and his ears seemed to be a little further back than the last time he’d looked at himself, a little more elongated.

  The cursed blood is changing your body, his father’s voice said, but not your spirit. You are an angel in devil’s armour.

  He smiled and noticed his canine teeth had grown overnight as well. That made him smile even more, and he felt the enlarged teeth with his tongue. He turned off the taps.

  The bloody patch on his upper arm caught his attention, and he saw that his black jumper was torn at the spot. He stripped off and inspected it, and was pleased to see that the small wound inflicted on him the night before had already healed. This armour was indeed strong. He grabbed a t-shirt from a hook on the back of the bathroom door and pulled it over his head, then left the bathroom.

  ‘Wakey wakey,’ he said, his voice bright. As he walked into the living area of the motel room, cradling his bag like a baby in his arms. ‘Rise and shine, boys. We have work to do.’

  Tacker and Goon, still in their motorcycle leathers, were sitting on the couch, heads on their chests. Tacker’s thin, greying hair was covering his face, while Goon’s bald head looked like a grey egg resting on the man’s wide shoulders. Each had a chunk torn from their leather jackets, on their shoulders, and around each hole there was a nice fragrant smear of blood. On the floor was a sizeable puddle of blood and ti
ssue, still warm. David sniffed the air, pleased with his work.

  He’d found the men the day before, after his visit to the Tillbrook council chambers, hiding in an abandoned farmhouse a few kilometres out of town. They’d tried to fight him off, but he’d subdued them without difficulty. Then he had taken a bite out of each of them. After that he’d brought them back to the motel room and left them there while he’d visited the carnies’ camp. Later he’d checked on them from time to time, made sure they were still out and watched the fever dreams they went through. He even talked to them, told them of his mission, which was now their mission, and what they would do together. They would be his generals, and together they would wage their war.

  Now it was morning. Time to get moving. Make hay while the sun shines, and all that.

  ‘Come on, sleepyheads,’ he said. Both stirred a little. He leaned over and checked Tacker’s shoulder through the ragged hole in the jacket. It was almost entirely healed. Good.

  Then he looked at Goon’s. It was still a raw bloody mess.

  ‘Oh-oh,’ he declared. ‘It looks like one of us isn’t quite like the others.’

  Tacker’s eyes opened, already filled with a bestial hunger. He got to his feet, stretched his rangy frame and growled a little from the aching pain in his bones, then looked around, a little confused.

  ‘It’s all right, Tacker,’ David said with a smile. ‘You’re safe.’

  Tacker looked at David, and for a moment there was rebellion in his red-rimmed eyes.

  David’s voice turned cold and low. ‘Don’t even think it.’

  The bikie lowered his gaze and hunched over in submission.

  ‘That’s better,’ David said, his tone light again. ‘Now, I’m sure you’re hungry after last night’s ordeal.’

  Tacker looked up at David and a trail of slobber dripped from the corner of his mouth. He nodded, excited.

  David gestured towards the other bikie. Goon’s eyes were flickering, but he wasn’t really awake yet. It seemed he’d lost a lot of blood overnight.

  Oh well. He’d lose a lot more this morning.

  ‘Bon appetit,’ David said with a grin, then went to the front door and stepped outside. As he closed the door behind himself, he heard Goon’s weakened cries and Tacker snarling as he tore into his friend. Then blessed silence.

  He sat on the step outside the motel room and waited.

  An army marches on its stomach, his father said in his head, and he nodded in agreement. He’d have to wait for his general to finish breakfast. He’d hoped that both Tacker and Goon would be infected with the demon blood, but there was no helping that now. One assistant would have to suffice. He wasn’t worried. He was confident he could do this on his own, if need be.

  Not on your own, boy, the voice reminded him. I am with you.

  ‘Of course,’ he corrected.

  And the good Lord too.

  ‘Well, that goes without saying,’ he laughed.

  No it doesn’t. The voice was cold and critical.

  David’s laughter died in an instant. It was a very familiar tone to him. ‘I’m sorry, Father.’

  Pride cometh before a fall, son, the voice admonished. You are a servant of God, a soldier of God. You are not God Himself.

  ‘I know, Father,’ he said, his face burning.

  Good, his father said, and there was some warmth in his voice again. Now let’s go. We have work to do.

  ‘Yes. Yes, we certainly do,’ he agreed. He stood up and walked towards the car.

  The bag, his father reminded him. Don’t forget the bag.

  ‘Oh, of course.’ He laughed and turned around. ‘And my right-hand man. I hope he’s finished his repast.’

  Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, his father said.

  ‘I’m sure Goon doesn’t feel that way.’ David giggled as he opened the motel room door, stepped back inside and closed it behind him. He suspected the inside of the room would probably draw some attention if seen by anyone outside.

  Tacker lay on the floor at his friend’s feet, covered in blood. Goon was still sitting on the couch, but now his head was angled right back. He seemed to be looking up at the ceiling. His eyes were wide open, but were quite, quite dead.

  Between the head and the feet, what was left of the bikie was barely recognisable as human.

  Oh, there was a general human shape to the mess, David had to admit that. He could see the arms here and there, for example, spread out on the couch as if he’d been crucified, but the skin was torn away from them, and most of the meat had been gnawed off, leaving scraps of sinew and muscle twisted around the red stained bones. The ribcage was exposed, and four or five of the ribs had been broken away, revealing the chest cavity within. The heart was absent. The guts, however, were spilled across the man’s lap like a knitting project gone horribly wrong, and loops of intestine and bowel rested on the floor between his feet. The entire couch was soaked in blood, shit and urine.

  David sniffed, wrinkling his nose. There was some vomit on the floor also, and he realised that Tacker had eaten, then regurgitated, then eaten more.

  ‘Well well,’ he said with a gentle smile, ‘look whose eyes were bigger than his tummy, huh?’

  Tacker, still lying on the floor, looked up at David, embarrassment in his eyes. He nodded.

  ‘Never mind, Tack,’ he said. ‘You go and get cleaned up. Have a nice shower, get all that nasty gunk off yourself. Then you and I are going to go see some people.’

  The bikie clambered to his feet and hurried into the bathroom. David heard the shower start. With a smile, he walked over to the television set and turned it on, then sat down on the couch next to Goon’s corpse and watched the mid-morning lifestyle program.

  It was a cooking segment. And all of a sudden, David found that he couldn’t stop laughing.

  -35-

  The house was located a good three kilometres off the main highway. Only the well-paved driveway leading from the road gave any indication that there was a residence in the area. Once Paul and Alvan had passed through a long tunnel of treetops it came into sight. It loomed before them, low and wide like a crouched animal poised to attack. It made Paul nervous. He glanced across at Alvan, and it seemed the feeling was mutual.

  ‘I haven’t been here in years,’ Alvan said with an anxious laugh. ‘I hope he recognises me.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Paul said, watching the house approach them. ‘He’ll recognise me.’

  Alvan glanced across at him, then nodded. ‘He knows everything that goes on in Tillbrook. I’d say he was handed photos of you and David ten minutes after you got into town.’

  ‘If not before,’ Paul agreed.

  They rolled forward in silence until they came to a halt just outside the front door. Paul opened his door and climbed out, and heard Alvan do the same on the other side. He leaned on his cane and looked up the steps to the huge wooden door. The rain had eased to a steady sprinkle, so light that it almost floated in the air, more mist than water. Alvan came around the car and joined him.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you?’ Paul responded with a small smile.

  Alvan nodded, and they walked up the steps together. Paul was intrigued to meet this man, the puppeteer who he’d heard so much about. He and Alvan had talked long into the night, as the rain had hammered the iron roof so hard that it was difficult to make out the words sometimes. But he’d gotten the gist.

  They reached the door. Paul looked at Alvan and gestured to it. Alvan reached out a hand. He looked like he was about to pet an angry tiger. He tapped at it.

  ‘Harder,’ Paul said.

  Alvan knocked again, a little louder.

  Paul sighed and stepped up to the door, then bashed his fist on it a few times. The noise was like thunder, and he could hear it echoing inside the house even after he’d stopped. Alvan cringed and edged away from the door.

  There was a long silence, made all the worse by the noise that had preceded it.
Then footsteps became audible on the other side of the door and drew closer. Paul stepped back from the door. He ended up beside Alvan, who’d managed to stop his retreat, though by the look on his face it was with some difficulty. The footsteps reached the door, and the sound of three or four locks being turned rattled through the thick wood, then the door creaked open.

  The man in the suit standing there was tall and thin, with black hair slicked back against his scalp like another layer of skin. His nose was narrow, as were his lips. Actually, everything about him was narrow, Paul realised. Even his voice.

  ‘May I help you?’

  ‘Oliver, it’s me,’ Alvan said, stepping forward. ‘I’m here to see my father.’

  The man didn’t register any surprise at Alvan’s presence. ‘I’m sorry, Master William, but your father gave me explicit instructions not to receive any visitors today.’ He looked at Paul, withering contempt in his eyes. ‘Especially not from strangers.’

  ‘William?’ Paul asked, confused.

  Alvan shot him an embarrassed sideways glance. ‘I’ll explain later.’ He turned back to Oliver. ‘Please, it’s important.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. Good day.’

  The door started to close. Paul reached out and stopped it with his hand, hard.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ollie,’ he said in a grim voice, ‘but I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.’

  Oliver looked into Paul’s eyes for a moment, and behind the façade of manners Paul could detect a kind of cold cunning there.

  ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘But your father is not in the house at present.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Alvan asked, impatient.

  Oliver smiled a thin smile. ‘He is in the rear paddock.’

  Alvan frowned. ‘What’s he doing there?’

  ‘Go and see, Master William.’

  Paul grabbed Alvan’s elbow. ‘Come on,’ he urged him, ‘let’s go. We don’t have time for this.’

  As they walked back down the steps, Oliver spoke again. His voice was utterly insincere. ‘It’s been lovely seeing you again, Master William.’