Carnies Page 22

  The vomit. Yes, that was it. The vomit had meat in it, raw meat and blood. The dead man’s meat and blood, to be precise. So, the man who’d vomited was the man who had killed the bikie. He’d eaten until he couldn’t eat any more, then regurgitated, then...

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ Paul breathed. It was like a bulimic binge and purge - then binge again. He remembered reading once about how the ancient Romans had done much the same thing: eaten until fit to burst, then went to get rid of what they’d eaten so they could continue to feast.

  But the worst thing, the thing that was disturbing him the most, was that none of this disgusted him.

  In fact, he was beginning to feel hungry.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Alvan’s voice broke the spell, for the second time in just a few minutes.

  Paul closed his eyes for a moment, then replied, ‘Yeah, everything’s fine. Just dandy. Come on in.’

  Alvan stepped into the room and caught sight of the big bikie’s corpse. ‘Christ on a stick,’ he gasped, his face turning pale. He looked like he was going to contribute to the puddle on the floor for a moment, but he regained control with admirable speed.

  Paul walked over to the blaring television set and turned it off. ‘This wasn’t done by David,’ he said, his voice calm. ‘We’ve got another one. Maybe David’s recruited some help.’

  ‘Oh, great,’ Alvan sighed. ‘Just what we need.’ He looked around the room. ‘No sign of Amos?’

  Paul could have slapped himself. He was so intent on finding David, he’d almost forgotten why they were there in the first place. He wished the beginnings of decomposition weren’t overwhelming the other smells in the room, because it would have made it much easier to tell if Amos had been here.

  Of course, he did have other senses. And now that the television was off he could make out a soft noise coming from behind him. He turned and looked at the curtain that separated the living and sleeping areas. A cold prickle worked its way across his scalp.

  ‘What...?’ Alvan asked, but Paul quietened him with a wave of his hand. Slowly he walked towards the curtain, his veins awash with adrenaline. He reached out one hand and grabbed the edge of the heavy cloth, paused for a moment, then pulled it aside, ready for anything.

  Anything, that was, but what he saw.

  Amos lay spreadeagled on the bed, his hands and feet chained to each of its legs. The bed was soaked with blackened blood, which had run in streams from the dozens of vicious wounds of varying sizes and shapes across his naked body. The scent of blood - stale and fresh - mingled with a kind of burnt smell, like meat that had been cooked too long. These smells had been held back by the heavy curtain, but now they were freed. Paul staggered backwards a little beneath the sensory onslaught.

  From behind him he heard Alvan gasp. ‘God, no...’ Paul stepped forwards again, despite the stench. He looked more closely at Amos. His nose had been sliced almost clean off, as had one of his ears. His right eye had been removed, and the surrounding flesh was torn outwards in a star-shaped pattern. His ribs were visible through two deep cuts across his body. One went straight down from the base of his neck to his groin, the other crossed it at right angles through both of his nipples. Some of his fingers had been cut off, and his penis and testicles looked as if they’d been ripped away, leaving ragged skin and tissue dangling between his legs above an enormous stain of blood on the mattress. Both of his feet had also been half cut off, and the stumps cauterised somehow. There really wasn’t as much blood as there should have been, come to think of it. Paul leaned forward and examined one of the wounds on his body. It was cauterised also, and the flesh inside was bubbled like melted plastic. That explained the burnt smell.

  There was a bucket next to the bed. Paul didn’t even have to look into it to know what it contained. Pieces.

  ‘Is he alive?’ Alvan’s voice was strangled.

  Paul nodded. ‘Barely. I heard him breathing.’ He moved his face close to the manager’s mangled features.

  ‘Amos? Can you hear me? It’s Paul.’

  Amos’ one eye opened, shockingly alert. The pain it contained made Paul shiver. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that emerged was a thick red-black sludge of clotted blood.

  Jesus, Paul thought, he’s had his tongue cut out too.

  ‘Paul, look,’ Alvan breathed. Paul turned and saw what Alvan was referring to. He’d been so focused on the manager’s broken form that he hadn’t noticed the table on the other side of the bed. It was covered with a variety of implements. Each glinted in the sunlight that eked into the sleeping area through the heavily draped window. There were knives in different sizes: a hunting knife with a serrated edge and a long blade, some smaller knives more suitable for the kitchen and even a scalpel. There was also a long saw, a pair of bolt cutters, even pliers and secateurs. If this had been a workshop, they would have seemed perfectly at home - just a collection of tools. But in this room, next to this bed, with their blades stained red and brown with caked blood, they were anything but.

  Paul reached out a finger to touch the blade of the saw, when he noticed how wet the blood still was. He ran his fingertip along it, then jerked his hand back, yelping with surprise and pain. The blade felt red hot. He blew on his finger, but it continued to burn, and wisps of smoke rose from the tip like a cigarette.

  ‘Shit!’ he yelled, waving his hand.

  ‘Silver,’ Alvan said, horror in his voice. ‘The damned things are made of silver.’ He looked at the chains that held Amos to the bed. ‘Christ, even the shackles are covered in it!’

  The complaints from Paul’s finger quietened down. He looked at his fingertip. It was red and a little swollen. He looked from it to the tools, then to what was left of Amos, and tried to imagine what he’d gone through, what he was still going through. He couldn’t even begin to.

  Something dissolved inside him, in his stomach. It was the bitter ball of jealousy and anger and resentment he’d felt towards Amos. And as it vanished, it was replaced by an absolute sorrow. And guilt. This is my fault, he thought, tears burning his eyes. He blinked them away, determined not to cry. I should never have come here. I should have stayed in my shitty flat, limping on my shitty ankle and living my shitty life. Then none of this would have happened.

  ‘I’m so sorry...’ he said, his voice cracking. Amos shook his head.

  Paul turned to Alvan. ‘We have to help him! Is there any way...’ But he trailed off, seeing the look of complete hopelessness on Alvan’s face. There was no way. He turned back to Amos.

  The carnival manager was mouthing something. Agony twisted his face. It took three repetitions for Paul to understand.

  ‘Kill me.’

  ‘No,’ he murmured, shaking his head.

  ‘Kill me!’

  ‘Amos...’

  ‘Please.’

  Paul reached over Amos’ body and grabbed the longest knife there, a hunting knife, with a blade of glittering, deadly silver. He held it over Amos’ chest, above the crucifix that his insane brother had carved there.

  Amos nodded.

  ‘What are you...?’ Alvan asked.

  Paul closed his eyes and brought the knife down. It slid between the ribs and pierced Amos’ heart. The metal sizzled inside the wound like a hot poker. The manager thrashed around on the bed, his survival instinct stronger than his death wish. If he hadn’t been chained down he’d almost certainly have attacked Paul with the last of his strength. But the chains held, and after less than a minute the thrashing lessened, the spasms became sporadic, then ceased altogether.

  Amos’ one eye was still open, still conscious, but fading fast. There was no pain there now, just blessed relief. He mouthed something again.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Then the eye closed, never to open again.

  Paul stood there with tears trickling down his cheeks. His guilt was beginning to curdle and turned to rage. He wasn’t solely responsible for this, not by a long shot. And there was only one way to begin to atone for it.
/>
  ‘Paul?’ Alvan whispered. ‘Look at this.’

  He turned and his eyes widened. Alvan was holding something in his hands, something he’d found on the floor. It was very familiar. In fact, it was identical to the long, thin object he still held in his left hand, leaning on it to lessen the weight he was putting on his sore leg.

  It was his spare cane. And it too was plated with silver.

  Paul smiled then, a strange, utterly humourless smile.

  ‘Alvan,’ he said, ‘I think I have a plan.’

  -38-

  Two men - big men - guarded the main path into the carnies’ encampment. David and Tacker had watched them for some time now from some nearby bushes, and listened to their edgy small talk, smelling their unease. It seemed they were both called Billy.

  They can share a gravestone, David’s father said, venom in his silent voice.

  David smiled, opened his carry bag and pulled out the sheathed knife he’d brought. He was wearing his leather gloves, of course, as the blade had been silver plated by Smith the day before. He’d bought the hunting knife at an army surplus store. There were bigger ones, but something about its design had caught his eye. It was subtly curved, and had a jagged row of teeth along its back, making it look like some kind of spiny metallic beast in silhouette. It had spoken to him somehow.

  He also grabbed another silvered knife that he’d packed in the bag that morning, and handed it to his new deputy, Tacker, who sat on his haunches behind and to the right of David. They were upwind of the two guards, and were keeping as quiet as they could. It was hard work convincing Tacker to remain silent. It seemed that most of the man had died during the night, leaving only the demon infection behind. But that would have to be enough. Anyway, Tacker was expendable. David was the brains of the operation.

  Really? David flinched at the tone of his father’s voice. I don’t think so.

  ‘Not now,’ he whispered. Tacker gave him a curious look, his head tilted, but didn’t make a noise. David gave him the knife handle first, which the lean man took happily. Once Tacker had settled a little, David looked back at the guards.

  He nearly cursed out loud. They were approaching the hiding spot, suspicious. He froze, and allowed himself to blend back into the bushes. He held the knife with the blade lying flat against his forearm, so that it would be shielded from the sun, preventing any tell-tale glints. He didn’t breathe. Behind him, he could sense that Tacker was doing the same.

  The beast isn’t too smart, his father muttered, but it’s cunning. Same as you.

  He had to bite back a reply, staying as still as a statue, as a stone, as a corpse. One of the men came very close to him, sniffing the air. David smiled, then hissed a single word.

  ‘Boo!’

  The man jumped, surprised. That was exactly what David had wanted. He burst out of the bush, turned the knife in his hand as he swung it, and the tip cut a whistling arc through the air. It slashed across the man’s throat, opening it up with a soft sizzling noise. He didn’t have a chance to make a noise. His windpipe was severed, and blood poured out all at once across his chest. He collapsed forward into the dirt without a sound, not moving at all.

  David stood over him for a moment, wiped his knife blade on the bottom of his jumper, then sheathed it again. He shifted his shoulder blades a little - the rifle slung there was digging into him - and then glanced over to see how his assistant was handling the second guard.

  Billy, the other Billy, was also finished. Tacker was straddling him like a lover. He held the knife in both hands, and was stabbing him over and over again, in the throat, in the neck, in the chest. Once or twice he went for the eyes, and David could hear the blade crunch against the bone as it plunged into the socket.

  ‘Tacker,’ he murmured, but there was authority in his voice, and the bikie stopped his frenzied attack. David remembered hearing another person with a voice like that. At least, before he’d cut his tongue out and left him vivisected and dying in a motel room. The thought made him smile, as did the object he carried in his pocket.

  ‘Come here,’ he beckoned. Tacker ran to his side, panting from his exertion, and slouched down by David’s side. He patted the man on the head. ‘Good boy,’ he purred, ‘good boy.’

  A branch cracked nearby. Without thinking, David snatched the knife from Tacker’s hand by the blade, spun around and hurled it in the direction the noise had come from. There was an agonised yell, then the sound of someone running away through the bushes.

  ‘Fetch,’ he ordered, and Tacker bounded off in the direction he’d thrown the knife, growling. David watched him crash through the bushes like a bulldozer. He realised the element of surprise wouldn’t last for long now. Someone must have heard the noise they’d made.

  He had to move fast.

  Staying low, he loped into the camp. He kept the makeshift wooden buildings between himself and any carnies he spotted. A few were looking around, confused, unsure what to do or where the noises had come from. He smiled to himself. Removing the leader had been an excellent first step.

  He sniffed, and picked up a familiar scent, one he’d become accustomed to while watching the camp the day before. His smile grew wider, and he followed the trail to one of the larger buildings, though not that of the alpha male. He walked up to the door and listened for a moment, then kicked it in.

  The fortune teller, Rachel, was standing near the door, pulling on a shawl. She was taken completely aback by David’s sudden entrance, and probably his appearance also. She just stood there, agape and frozen.

  Behind her was the creature they’d seen the first night at the carnival in the freak show tent. But now there were no chains holding it back, and it snarled and hunched at the sight of him, ready to attack.

  David lashed out and grabbed the woman by the throat, then spun her around into a vicious embrace. One arm remained wrapped around her neck, the other drew his knife from its sheath and placed its point between her breasts, then jabbed hard. She cried out, and there was the soft smell of burning flesh. It must have pierced her woollen jumper.

  ‘Don’t even think it, Fido,’ David growled, hoping it understood. He twisted the blade, and Rachel screamed. The creature hesitated for a moment, almost vibrating with indecision. Then it backed off reluctantly, teeth bared.

  David glanced around the room. It had a large central column, floor to ceiling, which appeared to be made from a single huge tree trunk. David assumed it was what kept the ceiling in place, since apart from that, this was an open-plan layout. It was a single huge room, with blankets and other items lying wherever they were used or needed. Then he spotted a large open chest, and inside it...

  ‘Pick up those,’ he said, nodding towards the chest. The creature turned its head and looked, then turned back, rebellious.

  David pressed harder. Blood was trickled down the blade, dripping from the hilt onto the earthen floor. The woman moaned.

  The creature turned to the chest and lumbered over to it. Held fast by David, the fortune teller was trying to speak.

  ‘No... Ben, don’t...’

  He turned the blade again, and her words turned to a cry through gritted teeth.

  ‘Ben, hey?’ he said, smiling. ‘Well Ben, I’m David, nice to meet you. And I’m in charge here, not this whore. So get those out right now, and take them to the middle of the room.’

  It reached into the chest and pulled out the chains he had seen it wearing at the carnival, complete with locks and keys. They looked good and sturdy. The creature carried the chains to the column in the centre of the building, but its baleful eyes never left David.

  ‘Now that long chain, with the manacles at either end. Attach one to your wrist.’

  Ben obeyed, growling as he did so.

  ‘Now lock it, and throw me the key.’

  There was a snap as the lock closed, then the creature tossed over the key. It landed at David’s feet.

  ‘Excellent. Now be a good boy and flick the chain around the colu
mn, would you?’ He moved the knife blade a little to emphasise, and Rachel cried out again. Tears of pain flowed down her cheeks.

  Ben whipped the chain around the column and caught the other end of it in his free hand. It was quite tight, only a couple of feet free once it had circumnavigated the tree trunk.

  ‘Perfect. Now the other hand, lock and key.’

  Another click, and then the key hit the dirt next to the first one.

  David released Rachel from the headlock he’d held her in, and moved the knife to her neck, not quite touching the flesh there. ‘Pick up the keys,’ he ordered her.

  ‘Why?’ she asked. Her voice shook, and she looked back over her shoulder at him. There was a strength in her eyes that worried him. He’d have to do something about that. He reached into his pocket and pulled out what he’d hidden there, closing his fingers completely around it.

  ‘Because,’ he said in a low voice, ‘if you do what I tell you, then I’ll spare you the same fate that befell your precious Amos. You and this misshapen mongrel, and the rest of the God-forsaken clan you freaks have built up over the years.’

  He held his other hand in front of her face and opened it.

  There lay a finger. A finger with an ornate gold ring on it.

  Rachel didn’t cry out, didn’t scream or faint. She looked at the finger of her husband, at the ring on it, and breathed in its familiar scent for a moment. Then all the fight went out of her, and she closed her eyes and trembled.

  ‘Do you swear?’ she asked. ‘Do you swear to spare them?’

  David nodded, his face sincere.

  Spare them, yes, his father laughed inside him. Spare them. Redeem them. Release them.

  Kill them!

  Rachel bent down to retrieve the keys. David knelt with her, never releasing the knife from her throat. She gathered the keys up in her hand, then reached behind her and handed them to David. He pocketed them, and hauled her back to her feet. Then he released her, letting her stagger forwards. She regained her balance and turned to face him, her eyes downcast.