Nightmare Carnival

Life’s nothing but silence and darkness.

He turns on the bedside lamp. The newspaper is still on the nightstand, folded at the page that carries Betty Marlin’s obituary, the final flourish of Rebecca’s preparations for her latest death.

His body creaks and groans as he goes to the front door and opens it, letting Sam run out into the black woods away from him. Henry sits on the step and waits, worrying that Sam won’t come back. He does, eventually, sniffing and pawing at him.

“Hey.” He rubs the loose skin on Sam’s neck.

When Henry peers out between the trunks there’s nothing. Not a glow or a flicker to betray her. She’s not coming for him after all. He realizes the worst of it. That he’s just a footnote and Rebecca has turned the page.

The leaves are coming in, good and green. Henry likes this time of year. He’s decided to stay in the house at the end of the lane, with its view of the trees. Sam likes it here.

He’s been on the verge of making the call so many times. Today, he tells himself, I’ll do it today.

He picks up the phone.

“The Gramercy.”

“Roland Henrikson, please. 136.”

The man clears his throat.

“I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Henrikson’s dead.”

“What?” He thinks of Rollo’s face filling the screen.

“I’m sorry to give you such terrible news.” The man waits. All Henry can think is that he’s courteous despite the seedy hotel where he works.

“Can I ask how?”

The man clears his throat.

“Please tell me.”

“I’m sorry. His body was found on a building site. Someone set him on fire.”

Leo can’t move fast enough. Christos’s legs have stopped twitching.

You’re the only person I trust to keep him safe.

Rebecca leans over Christos. Leo can’t tell if she’s screaming or not. Everything sounds muffled to him, even the shrieks of the crowd. He doesn’t understand. His aim was true. He wants to tell Rebecca it was an accident. Not even his desire for her could make him hurt Christos. Or her.

Rebecca looks up, wet faced. Then she bursts into flames, a rapid progression that’s uncontrolled. This isn’t her act. By the time he reaches her she’s a bonfire. She’s not just engulfed, as he’s accustomed to seeing her; she’s consumed. Rebecca’s burning up.

He takes off his jacket and tries to smother the flames but it’s too late. The fire’s too great. There’s nothing for it. Leo puts his arms around her, marvelling that she still has the strength to try and push him off.

It hurts at first. His skin sears but he won’t relinquish her. There’s insufficient smoke to choke him. Let it come. His sordid corners cry out to be purified by fire.

Rebecca’s embrace is hot. Hotter than the center of the earth. Hotter than the surface of the sun. She’s holding him close now and he wishes he could see her face at the heart of the blaze. There’s no one now but the two of them.

Love, Leo thinks, how it burns us up.

WORK, HOOK, SHOOT, RIP by Nick Mamatas

The high-striker — you know, that game with the sledgehammer and the bell? — was gaffed. But the belly gaff was out of whack, so when the carny running the game pressed his stomach against the gaff button, it got stuck, and nobody even came close to winning. Every able-bodied man in Scranton, PA, was thereby an official Sissy, no matter how hard or accurately they swung the hammer. Worse, the carny running it was a new hire, a real First of May, so couldn’t talk his way out of it when even the local football jock — and the son of a leading member of the Keystone White Citizenship Association — failed to make the meter climb past Puny Weakling. There was a small panic, threats of a fight — the carny called out, “Hey, Rube!” but nobody came to back him up — and so the carny bailed the counter and ran to the woods, the football jock on his heels with the carnival’s sledgehammer in hand. “The beef had left the awning,” as an old-timer, which Jeff Gordon, owner of Jeff Gordon’s All-Star All-Comers, might say. The carnival’s official patch — whose job it was to make nice with the cops, or make fast with the bribes — was officially out for the evening, and the police were officially in and handing out citations, mere moments behind a wave of the whispered excuse “Baby needs milk!” from carny to carny.

Fraud or battery? That was the choice Jeff Gordon was given by the local constabulary. An officer was rounding the backside of the All-Star All-Comers trailer, poking at it with his truncheon like the whole setup — the trailer and the wrestling/boxing ring that opened up out of it like a Murphy bed onto the midway — was gaffed. Gordon was pacing the cop, not saying anything. Then the cop ran into the Black Raja, in mask and cape.

“And what are you supposed to be?” the cop said. “The Black Negro?” He laughed at his own joke. The Raja looked down at the cop through the eye slits in his Zorro mask, and said nothing.

“The Black Raja,” Gordon corrected. “Our star attraction.”