All the Rage

by F. Paul Wilson

  The tent was filling with carny folk. Lots of them, all running his way. In seconds he was surrounded. The workers he could handle, but the others, the performers, gathered in a crowd like this, in the murky light, in various states of dress, were unsettling. The Snake Man, the Alligator Boy, the Bird Man, the green Man from Mars, and others were all still in costume—at least Jack hoped they were costumes—and none of them looked too friendly.

  Hank was holding his bloody nose, wagging his finger at Jack. "Now you're gonna get it! Now you're gonna get it!"

  Bondy seemed to have a sudden infusion of courage. He hauled himself to his feet and started toward Jack with a raised fist.

  "You goddamn son of a—"

  Jack rapped the iron bar across the side of his bald head, staggering him. With an angry murmur, the circle of carny folk abruptly tightened.

  Jack whirled, spinning the pike around him. "Right," he said. "Who's next?"

  He hoped it was a convincing show. He didn't know what else to do. He'd taken some training in the martial use of the bamboo pole and nunchuks and the like; he wasn't Bruce Lee with them, but he could do some damage with this pike. Trouble was, he had little room to maneuver and less every second: the circle was tightening, slowly closing in on him like a noose.

  Jack searched for a weak spot, a point to break through and make a run for it. As a last resort, he always had the .45-caliber Semmerling strapped to his ankle.

  Then a deep voice rose above the angry noise of the crowd.

  "Here, here! What's this? What's going on?"

  The carny folk quieted, but not before Jack heard a few voices whisper "the boss" and "Oz." They parted to make way for a tall man, six-three at least, lank dark hair, sallow-complexioned, his pear-shaped body swathed in a huge silk robe embroidered with Oriental designs. Although he looked doughy about the middle, the large hands that protruded from his sleeves were thin and bony at the wrist.

  The boss—Jack assumed he was the Ozymandias Prather who ran the show—stopped at the inner edge of the circle and took in the scene. His expression was oddly slack but his eyes were bright, dark, cold, more alive than the rest of him. Those eyes finally settled on Jack.

  "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

  "Protecting your property," Jack said, gambling.

  "Oh, really?" The smile was sour. "How magnanimous of you." Abruptly his expression darkened. "Answer the question! I can call the police or we can deal with this in our own way."

  "Fine," Jack said. He upped his ante by throwing the pike at the boss's feet. "Maybe I had it wrong. Maybe you pay baldy here to poke holes in your attractions."

  The big man froze for an instant, then slowly wheeled toward the ticket seller who was rubbing the welt on the side of his head.

  "Hey, boss—" Bondy began, but the tall man silenced him with a flick of his hand.

  The boss looked down at the pike where sawdust clung to the dark fluid coating its point, then up at the crouching rakosh with its dozens of oozing wounds. Color darkened his cheeks as his head rotated back toward Bondy.

  "You harmed this creature, Mr. Bond?"

  The boss's eyes and tone were so full of menace that Jack couldn't blame the bald man for quailing.

  "We was only trying to get it to put on more of a show for the customers."

  Jack glanced around and noticed that Hank had faded away. He saw the performers inching toward the rakosh cage, making sympathetic sounds as they took in its condition. When they turned back, their cold stares were focused on Bondy instead of Jack.

  "You hurt him," said the green man.

  "He is our brother," the Snake Man said in a soft sibilant voice, "and you hurt him many times."

  Brother? Jack wondered. What are they talking about? What's going on here?

  The boss continued to pin Bondy with his glare. "And you feel you can get more out of the creature by mistreating it?"

  "We thought—"

  "I know what you thought, Mr. Bond. And many of us know too well how the Sharkman felt. We've all known mistreatment during the course of our lives, and we don't look kindly upon it. You will retire to your quarters immediately and wait for me there."

  "Fuck that!" Bondy said. "And fuck you, Oz! I'm blowin' the show! Ain't goin' nowhere but outta here!"

  The boss gestured to the Alligator Boy and the Bird Man. "Escort Mr. Bond to my trailer. See that he waits outside until I get there."

  Bondy tried to duck through the crowd, but the green man blocked his way until the other two grabbed his arms. He struggled but was no match for them.

  "You can't do this, Oz!" he shouted, fear wild in his eyes as he was none too gently dragged away. "You can't keep me here if I wanna go!"

  Oz ignored him and turned his attention to Jack. "And that leaves us with you, Mr…?"

  "Jack."

  "Jack what?"

  "Just Jack."

  "Very well, Mr. Jack. What is your interest in this matter?"

  "I don't like bullies," Jack said.

  It wasn't an answer, but it would have to do. Wasn't about to tell the boss he'd come to French-fry his Sharkman.

  "No one does. But why should you be interested in this particular creature? Why should you be here at all?"

  "Not too often you get to see a real live rakosh."

  When he saw the boss blink and snap his head toward the cage, Jack had a sudden uneasy feeling that he'd made a mistake. How big a mistake he wasn't quite sure.

  "What did you say?" The glittering eyes fixed on him again. "What did you call it?"

  "Nothing," Jack said.

  "No, I heard you. You called it a rakosh." Oz stepped over to the cage and stared into Scar-lip's yellow eyes. "Is that what you are, my friend… a rakosh? How fascinating!" He turned to the rest of his employees. "It's all right. You can all go back to bed. Everything is under control. I wish to speak to this gentleman in private before he goes."

  "You didn't know what it was?" Jack said as the crowd dispersed.

  Oz continued to stare at the rakosh. "Not until this moment. I thought they were a myth."

  "How did you find it?" Jack said. The answer was important—until this afternoon he'd been sure he'd killed Scar-lip.

  "The result of a telephone call. Someone phoned me last summer—woke me in the middle of the night—and told me that if I searched the waters off Governors Island I might find 'a fascinating new attraction.'"

  Last summer… the last time he'd seen Scar-lip and the rest of his species. "Who called you? Was it a woman?"

  "No. Why do you ask?"

  "Just wondering."

  Besides Gia, Vicky, Abe, and himself, the only other living person who knew about the rakoshi had been Kolabati.

  "He referred to himself as Professor Roma. I'd never heard of him and haven't heard from him since. I searched for him afterwards, to see if he could tell me what he knew about the creature, but never found him."

  Jack swallowed. Roma… figures.

  "Something in the caller's voice, his utter conviction, compelled me to do as he said. Came the dawn I was on the water with some of my people. We found ourselves vying with groups of souvenir hunters looking for wreckage from a ship that had exploded and burned the night before. We discovered our friend here floating in a clump of debris. I assumed the creature was dead, but when I found it was alive, I had it brought ashore. It looked rather vicious so I put it into an old tiger cage."

  "Lucky for you."

  The boss smiled, showing yellow teeth. "I should say so. It almost tore the cage apart. But since then its health has followed a steady downhill course. We've fed it fish, fowl, beef, horse meat, even vegetables—although one look at those teeth and there's no question that it's a carnivore—but no matter what we've tried, its health continues to fail."

  Jack now had an idea why Scar-lip was dying. Rakoshi required a very specific species of flesh to thrive. And this one wasn't getting it.

  "I brought in a veterinary expert," Oz went
on, "one I have learned to rely on for his discretion, but he could not help. I even had a research scientist test the creature's blood. He found some fascinating things there, but he could not alter the creature's downhill course."

  Jack suddenly realized that the research scientist was Dr. Monnet Had to be. And he'd found something "fascinating" in Scar-lip's blood.

  Did Berzerk come from Scar-lip?

  A drug that magnifies violent tendencies distilled from the most violent and vicious creature on earth…

  A perfect fit.

  "You're sure it's a rakosh?" Oz said, interrupting Jack's racing thought train.

  "Well…" Jack said, trying to sound tentative. "I saw a picture of one in a book once. I… I think it looked like this. But I'm not sure. I could be wrong."

  "But you're not wrong," the boss said, turning and staring into his eyes. He lowered his gaze to Jack's chest, fixing on the area where the rakosh had scarred him. "And I believe you have far more intimate knowledge of this creature than you are willing to admit."

  Jack shrugged, uncomfortable with the scrutiny, especially since it wasn't the first time someone had stared at his chest this way.

  "But it doesn't matter!" Oz laughed and spread his arms. "A rakosh! How wonderful! And it's all mine!"

  Jack glanced at Scar-lip's slouched, wasted form. Yeah, but not for long.

  He heard a noise like a growl and turned. The sight of one of the burly types from Monnet's warehouse standing in the exit flap startled him. He looked like he was waving good-bye to his boss. Jack turned away, hoping he wouldn't recognize him.

  "Excuse me," Oz said and hurried toward the exit, his silk robe fluttering around him.

  Jack turned to find Scar-lip staring at him with its cold yellow eyes. Still want to finish me off, don't you. It's mutual, pal. But it looks like I'm going to outlast you by a few years. A few decades.

  The longer he remained with the wasted creature, the more convinced he was that Scar-lip was on its last legs. He didn't have to light it up. The creature was a goner.

  Jack kept tabs on Oz out of the corner of his eye. After half a minute of hushed, one-sided conversation—all the employee did was nod every so often—the boss man returned.

  "Sorry. I had to revise instructions on an important errand. But I do want to thank you. You have provided a bright moment in a very disappointing stop." His gaze drifted. "Usually we do extremely well in Monroe, but this trip… it seems a house disappeared last month—vanished, foundation and all, amid strange flashing lights one night. The locals are still spooked."

  "How about that," Jack said, turning away. "I think I'll be going."

  "But you must allow me to reward you for succoring the poor creature, and for identifying it. Free passes, perhaps."

  "Not necessary," Jack said and headed for the exit.

  "By the way," Oz said. "How can I get in touch with you if I wish?"

  "You can't," Jack called back over his shoulder.

  A final glance at Scar-lip showed the rakosh still staring at him; then he parted the canvas flaps and emerged into the fresh air again.

  A strange mix of emotions swirled around Jack as he returned to the car. Glad to know Scar-lip would be taking a dirt nap soon, but the very fact that it still lived, even if it was too weak to be a threat to Vicky, bothered him. He'd prefer it dead. He vowed to keep a close watch on this show, check back every night or two until he knew without a doubt that Scar-lip had breathed its last.

  Something else bothered him. Couldn't put his finger on it, but he had this vaguely uncomfortable feeling that he never should have come back here.

  Flashes on the western horizon from the thunderstorm brewing over the city only accentuated his unease.

  10

  Still busy! Nadia wanted to hurl the phone out her bedroom window and let it crash four stories below on Thirty-fifth Street. Lightning flashed faintly through that window, but she heard no thunder.

  Figuring a good night's sleep might help, she'd turned in early, hoping to wake up in the morning with a whole new perspective. But sleep wouldn't come, so she'd tried Doug's line again.

  "He can't still be working," she muttered.

  But she knew he very well could be. Sometimes he'd code all night.

  Either that or he'd conked out and left the phone off the hook.

  "I'm going over there," she said.

  She threw on some clothes and headed down the hall.

  "You are going out?" her mother called from her bedroom where she was watching TV. "At this hour?"

  "Over to Doug's, Mom. I need to talk to him."

  "It can't wait until tomorrow?"

  No. It couldn't. She needed Doug now.

  "You think this is wise?" Mom went on. "Outside bad storm is coming."

  "I'll be OK." Nadia pulled an umbrella from the closet by the door, then slipped back to her mother's room. "I shouldn't be too long."

  She pecked her on the cheek and hurried down to the street. Thunder rumbled as she hit the sidewalk but the pavement was still dry. Across the street lay St. Vartan's Park, the tiny patch of green where she used to play when she was a child.

  She walked down to First Avenue and caught a cab.

  This actually might work out better than if Doug had come over for dinner, she thought after giving the driver Doug's address in DUMBO.

  She wouldn't have been able to discuss Dr. Monnet's involvement with Berzerk in front of Mom. This way they'd have a chance to talk in private.

  She smiled as another thought sent a warm tingle through her. And privacy meant they'd be able to engage in another form of communication…

  11

  "Aw, no!" Doug said as his monitor went dead along with everything else electric in his apartment. Luckily he'd just finished a save or he'd have lost all the new code he'd just written for his tracking software. Still, he'd probably lost a whole screen's worth. Times like this he wished he'd invested in a BUPS unit.

  He blinked in the sudden darkness; then a lightning flash strobed through the room, followed by a rumble of thunder. He'd been so wrapped up in his programming—he entered something like a Zen state when he worked like this—that he'd lost all track of time and surroundings.

  "Damn," he muttered. "A storm."

  He pushed away and went to the window. A cool breeze laden with the promise of rain washed over him. Another brighter flash of lightning with a louder thunderclap close on its tail. This was shaping up to be a biggie. Then he noticed that windows across the street were still lit up. How come they had power and he didn't? As a matter of fact, he couldn't remember the last time a storm had knocked out his power.

  He picked up the phone to call Nadj but it was dead. Power and phone? How the hell had that happened? He wondered if Nadj had been calling him. Well, he always had the cell phone…

  Doug straightened as he heard the fire escape rattle. The wind picking up? Shouldn't be anybody out there. He went to the bedroom to see.

  The window was wide open, just as he'd left it, the curtains billowing in the breeze. He stuck his head outside and checked upward—his apartment was on the top floor, so only the short length of 'scape to the roof lay above him. No one visible up there. And no one down. Probably the wind; a good gust would rattle the railings every so often. Far to his right, across the river, a brightly speckled sliver of Lower Manhattan was visible between two buildings.

  The first drops of rain splattered him then so he backed inside and closed the window, then hurried to close the others.

  Between the intermittent flashes and rumbles, the apartment was dark and eerily silent. Doug went to the kitchen for some candles. Once he had some light he'd hunt up his cell phone and give Nadj a call. He felt bad about neglecting her today.

  He was searching through the miscellaneous drawer when he sensed—or thought he sensed—movement in the hallway. He stopped and squinted into the darkness. A lightning flash revealed nothing. He stepped down the hall and checked the apartment door—de
ad-bolted as always.

  He decided the power failure plus the storm were giving him the creeps.

  He went back to searching the drawer and finally found two half-consumed red candles, left over from the Christmastime dinner he and Nadj had shared last year. Now to find a match. One of the downsides to quitting smoking was that he never carried matches anymore.

  But then he heard another sound above his rattling within the drawer… like a thump… from his bedroom.

  Apprehension rippling across his back, Doug pulled a carving knife from the utensil drawer and stepped toward the bedroom.

  "Somebody there?" he called, immediately thinking, What a stupid thing to say.

  No reply—not that he'd expected one, and he'd have been shocked witless if anyone had answered. He assumed—prayed—that this was all nothing. It had better be. Because the knife was just for show. He wouldn't know what to do with it if he needed it. He didn't know a thing about fighting, wasn't sure he knew how to throw a punch, let alone stab someone.

  He stepped into the bedroom.

  "Hello?"

  The shadows were deep here. And he noticed a faint musty odor that hadn't been present before. But it seemed empty…

  Then lightning flashed, illuminating two hulking forms pressed against the wall.

  With a cry, Doug spun and ran for the front door. A blast of thunder engulfed his cries.

  "Help! Hel—!"

  He plowed head-on into a third hulk in the hallway and bounced back—like running into a lightly padded concrete wall. Doug almost fell but managed to keep his balance. He turned but lightning silhouetted the two figures approaching from the bedroom.

  "I've got a knife!" Doug cried, holding it up.

  Something slapped hard against his hand and the knife went flying. He opened his mouth to cry for help but thick fingers clapped over his lips, sealing them. Two more hands grabbed his ankles and lifted him off the floor. Despite his struggles, he was completely helpless as they carried him toward the bedroom like a thrashing, unruly child.

  Why? his panicked mind screamed as his bladder threatened to empty. Who are they? What are they? And why do they want me? I've never hurt anyone. Why should anyone—?