“Hey kid, don’t cry,” Francis pulled him in tight and held him. He felt the boy shudder against him; muffled words intermingled with heavy sniffs rocked his body.
“What was that, Nate?”
Nathan withdrew from the embrace and rubbed his tear-laced eyes. “It didn’t come true, my wish. I don’t want any of this. I want my mummy to still be here.”
“Kid, there is nothing I want more than for that to be the case, honest. But life now doesn’t work that way. Hell, I don’t even think it worked that way before all this happened. We’ve all lost someone, people so close to us that it hurts to think about them now. But we have to. We have to remember them. They are always alive as long as we remember them. Your mum, my Diane, it hurts like hell to think of them and that they’re not here anymore, but we have to, okay?” Francis hugged Nathan again. Little arms held onto the man.
The forest held its breath; the mist matched the mood and lifted a little. “Thank you, Francis,” Nathan said, before coughing up thick nasally phlegm. Francis nodded back in acknowledgement. “So her name was Diane?” the boy asked.
Francis smiled, just a crack. “Yes, her name was Diane, and she was my world, much like your mum was yours. I remember her. In my way. But some things are too painful to talk about, kid. You know what, I’ll make you a deal.”
“What’s that?” Nathan asked, wiping his tears with his coat sleeve.
“When I dream of her again, I’ll tell you what happened, okay? Some of it will be as difficult to hear as it is to say, but…” Francis reached into his pocket and pulled out a small crumpled packet of Polo mints, “by telling you, you can keep her alive too, in case anything happens to me, yeah?”
Nathan looked puzzled for a moment and then nodded. “You’re not going to leave me are you?”
“I’m sure as hell not planning on it kid, but the world is all messed up these days. You never know what you’re going to bump into next, eh?” Francis dropped a mint into the kid’s hand and chucked one into the abyss of his own mouth. “Come on, let’s get going.”
An hour or so later and the fog lifted its skirt to reveal the lip of the forest. Standing atop a small hill, the pair looked out over more forest opposite and a strange sight below.
“What’s that down there?” Nathan pointed to a Big Top sat in the crescent of a clearing; another long narrow tent ran off the back of it, disappearing into the woodland. A scattering of vehicles of various shapes and sizes were parked out front.
“Looks like a circus tent or something. Come on, let’s go have a look, but be on the lookout okay?” Francis cautioned.
The pair carefully picked their way down the muddy embankment. Roots jutted out, forming straggly handholds which made the descent manageable. They dusted themselves off at the bottom and made their way through the assortment of parked cars and vans. In front of the entrance was a once white minibus, sprayed with mud and detritus. From behind the van they could see a small plume of smoke being cast into the air.
A man, dressed in a red morning jacket, remarkably white trousers, a bow tie and black riding boots stood with his back to them, Francis moved the boy behind him and coughed. The man spun around as if he was on a roulette wheel.
His face was the colour of milky tea. A thin waxed moustache curled around his nostrils. At first glance it looked like it had been drawn on with a fat marker pen. His black hair was slicked to one side, his eyes wide with surprise, the man’s puckered mouth was clamped down on a cigarette.
Thin fingers extracted the cigarette, poise returned, and a wisp of smoke drifted from parted lips. “My, my, you gave me quite the fright,” the man enunciated. He placed the cigarette to his lips once more and inhaled deeply. The cherry flared angrily and ate into the remainder of the stick, stopping as it met the border to the filter. It was flicked away, sent cartwheeling through the air like a flare, before landing in a muddy puddle, a mini moat around one of the tent moorings.
A hand reached behind his back and pulled out a velvet disc the size of a plate. With well-practised alacrity, he bowed and the disc expanded into a top hat with a loud PUFF. With a showman’s deep bow, he donned the hat and stood up, one hand behind his back, the other straight forward, fingers splayed.
“Good day to you fair travellers. I bid thee welcome to this site of wonder and astonishment. Where you will witness such sights which you thought were never possible. Some have fainted as they crossed this very threshold, the mere thought of what lay beyond too much for their brains to comprehend. I give you…Trevor Norman’s Penny Gaff.” The man bent to one side, his arms displaying the entrance as if it were a giant, priceless vase.
“Erm, what now?” Francis asked. “Do you want money or something?”
The man sighed and sagged, disappointed. “No, good sir, money is of no use to man or beast these days. I provide entertainment and sustenance, for man cannot live on adventure alone, hmm?”
Nathan appeared from behind Francis’ sizeable frame. “Is it a circus?” The words squeaked out of him.
“Pah!” the man scoffed. He did a little shanty which brought him closer to the pair. Francis instinctively reached for the baton in the bag webbing.
“This is no circus, young man. Pray tell, have you ever seen…a man who lives as a scorpion? Hands ending in claws, a tail, which yields no poison, but arches over him in the same manner as the skittering desert insect?” The man bowed over again, one arm extended to the tent entrance, the other across his chest.
“Have your innocent eyes even seen a boy who looks like a shark, a denizen of the deep, yet lives on land and plays just as you?”
Nathan shook his head vigorously, his eyes bulging with wonder. “No sir…”
The man stood up, hands clasped behind him, one eyebrow raised in an upside down V. “Then please, come with me, enter my Gaff, see such sights as these, and more, for we are mere entertainers trying to do what we can in these days. There is such sadness now, so much sorrow. We try to bring only joy. Why, a party has just entered, the show is about to begin, come, come, we have room for two more. You won’t believe your eyes. I just need any weapons from your person…”
Francis stepped into the man’s personal space. “Listen, slim, we’re just passing through. We don’t want to see your freakshow, now just mo—”
The man shrieked, “FREAK SHOW? How dare you, sir. HOW DARE YOU! Those that dwell within are no freaks, they are wonders, nay, they are marvels, do not denigrate their existence with such vulgarities.”
“Woah, I don’t mean no offence, pal. Just we’re trying to get somewhere, and this isn’t helping.” Francis raised his hands in supplication. The man stroked out the ends of his moustache against his lip.
“But of course,” he simpered, “this interlude will not take you long, an hour at most. We have food and drink for when the show is over. Please, it’s all we have these days.”
The man turned around and his body started to fall and rise. Francis realised he was sobbing. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Why not, sure, if it won’t take long, we’d love to, hey kid?” Nathan nodded enthusiastically, gripping Francis’ sleeve.
“Wonderful!” The man spun around and wiped a bulbous tear from his cheek. “Come, come, this way. This is Goliath, please be gentle. He lost his twin brother a few months back and has been mute ever since.”
The man led them to a large flap which served as the entrance to the Big Top. A dwarf dressed as a clown held open one side. A chipped hand-painted enamel badge confirmed his identity as ‘GOLIATH’. Though he was stationary, his body leaned forward unnaturally, as if he was an extra in the Smooth Criminal video.
As Francis and Nathan were ushered in, it looked like the dwarf tried to make a move to grab them, but one hand was firmly affixed to the opening. His shirt collar was pulled up over the bottom half of his face. “Is he—” Francis spluttered as he was hauled inside.
“He’s fine. He will be, anyway. Just needs time to grieve.
So many lost these days, eh? Come hither, the others will be eagerly waiting for the show to start. You won’t want to miss a single second,” the Ringmaster said smoothly, “I promise.”
“Others?” Francis asked. “What others?”
“Good sir, I have just returned from a recce of the local area in my van. Saving the unfortunate souls within who were travelling on foot, or too weary to carry on. I offered them the same as you: sustenance, both of the body and soul. Come, come, you’ll see that this is nothing more than altruism,” the Ringmaster said enthusiastically, cajoling them through a draped entranceway.
The interior smelt of mouldy canvas, wet grass, mud and eucalyptus oil. The gloom wrapped around them like fumes from a chain smoker’s living room.
“TAA-DAA,” the ringmaster announced. A column of light bathed the pair, and they shielded their eyes with their hands. Like mice to a lump of cheddar, Nathan and Francis staggered from the murk and towards the chamber beyond.
As they left the tunnel, the heavy tarp was released and swished back into place, rendering the outside world a thing of myth. Francis took a few steps inside and looked around the arena.
At first glance, it didn’t seem as big as he thought it would be. As a child, he had spent the best part of a school half-term holiday nagging his parents to take him to the circus. Five solid days of sulking and throwing tantrums resulted in them agreeing to the blackmail.
He had hated it.
The clowns scared him, the car they drove in seemed like a death-trap, the way it fell apart and honked like an angry sea lion. Trapeze artists only made him hide his face with sweaty, clammy hands, not bearing to see them crash to earth with no safety net to break their fall.
It was the animals he liked least of all. He’d seen many of them in a zoo and whilst they looked bored, the circus ones were bored and slightly odd looking.
Tufts of fur were missing from the lion and tiger; the elephant had a missing tusk and a mournful face which hinted at serial abuse. Francis spent the entire time whinging to his parents to go, but they were oblivious to his protestations and delighted in the spectacle of whimsy.
Ahead of him was a small walkway, enough for two people to walk down abreast. Four rows sprouted out from this, five chairs on each side, looking at the other spectators. He figured there would be more than enough room. He counted fourteen. A few groups stood apart from each other, eyeing up the establishment and muttering to each other.
As they trudged into the room, Francis noticed the floor was covered in a thick layer of sawdust. His guess was to counter the moisture seeping through the ground. The Big Top must’ve been here for a while. It wasn’t as if there were many able bodied people left to pack everything up and go on a grand tour of the country.
Walking though it was like traipsing through thick snow; after a few steps, they both had to pick their feet up to make their way more easily into the high domed area. The sodium lamps overhead produced a gentle glow, bathing everything in an orange light. It also gave the flooring the appearance of popcorn, but with no sound effects.
The compere strode down the walkway effortlessly, seeming to glide over the thick uneven floor.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he beseeched. Everyone turned and looked at their host.
“Thank you for accepting my humble offer, to experience the wonders of nature and appreciate the many varied forms of humanity. Please take a seat. Don’t be shy, get yourself comfortable, for the show shall start shortly.” He bowed deeply and turned to a raised wooden stage at the end of the chamber. A canvas skirt surrounded the entire area, but a pair of thick ruby curtains barred the way to the back.
“When we getting grub?” demanded a burly man, seemingly already well fed.
“Why, after the show my dear fellow, as promised. Please, take your seats ladies and gentlemen, I shall be but a moment.” With a flourish, he flitted between the curtains and disappeared within.
The disorientated crowd shared puzzled glances before finding a seat and waiting for the performance to begin.
The lights fizzled out. A spotlight clicked on from behind the audience and fixed on a point in the middle of the curtains. A tannoy crackled into life, and a voice boomed out…
‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, BOYS AND GIRLS, WELCOME TO TREVOR NORMAN’S PENNY GAFF. HERE YOU WILL BE DAZZLED BY SIGHTS YOU’VE NEVER WITNESSED. ASTOUNDED BY THE POSSIBILITY OF HOW HUMANITY’S TEMPLATE CAN BE ALTERED. SHAKEN TO YOUR VERY CORE BY THE MALEVOLENCE OF NATURE.
OUR FIRST WONDER IS CALLED THE SCORPION KING. RAISED ON THE BANKS OF THE RIVER NILE, HE WAS SHUNNED BY HIS VILLAGE, BUT SAVED FROM AN UNCARING ORPHANAGE BY MY FATHER. HIS HANDS ARE SNAPPING CLAWS, WHILST HIS VESTIGIAL COLUMN BOWS OVER LIKE A SCORPION’S TAIL.
BE NOT AFRAID, FOR HE CANNOT STING YOU,
BOW DOWN AND PRAISE… THE SCORPION KING.
FOR HE IS HUNGRY.
FOR YOUR FLESH.’
The audience shuffled uncomfortably and looked at each other. Puzzled faces shook at the sheer preposterousness of the words. There was a loud clang from behind the curtains. The spotlight’s beam widened to take in the whole of the stage. Following a ripple of awkward applause, the curtains parted…
The crowd collectively held their breaths. The sound of their hearts pounding in their heads the only thing they could feel. From beyond the curtains, there was only blackness, a fetid smell of decay, halitosis and damp meat. It was as though they had been transported to the outside of a fast food sandwich shop.
From the nothingness came a shuffling of boots, scuffing dusty divots into the floor. Two fleshy hands, formed into claws, pierced the void. Eyes recoiled at the appearance of fingers fused together and smoothed into larger parodies of the vile repugnance of nature. As rag covered legs strode uneasily into the ring of light, a now familiar sound rumbled from the innards of the approaching being.
A low baritone moan, which every single person in the room had become somewhat accustomed to over the past nine months of living in the apocalypse, covered them like margarine.
The margarine of the UNDEAD.
Not available in shops or via stockists.
“Everyone. Get back,” shouted Francis, instinctively shoving Nathan behind him. The Scorpion King staggered into full view. His torso was bared, showing lines of ridged scar tissue running from his shoulders down towards his groin where they disappeared from sight behind his feculent trousers. They looked like thick black leather braces.
His arms were badly atrophied; flaps of grey skin hung from his humerus like carrier bags fished out of a canal. As he stumbled forwards they swung like half-filled water balloons. The claws themselves snapped idly. There was no visible thumb or stump where one had ever been, just the top and bottom two fingers stuck together and bound by skin covered Clingfilm.
Another moan rolled out and smothered the audience. A goatee formed from the crust of dried blood, surrounded rows of broken teeth. The Scorpion King convulsed causing a chunk of blackened meat to fall from his maw and plop onto the floor. The familiar black-flecked eyes scoured the panicked masses in front of him. What was left of his curtained hair stuck to his grey forehead through dried bone marrow and spinal fluid.
One of the punters in the front row was watching agape at the dead monster thudding its way towards him. He had straggly brown hair, and a bushy beard, dressed only in a ‘Kleptophobia – Cow Circus’ t-shirt, once black combat trousers and a pair of hiking boots.
The Scorpion King stepped off the stage area, and while everyone else in the tent was trying to find a way out, or back away from the monstrosity, Beardy sat there, catching flies. A claw snapped and clamped onto his neck. Finally in the here and now, he squeezed his hands around the strangling appendage and started to thump it.
Seemingly displeased with the show of rebellion, The Scorpion King pulled the man up and out of his seat. Despite his arms being nothing but bone, pooled blood, and decaying muscle, the man was hauled up to the King’s face with as much effort as it take
s to roll your eyes at a My Chemical Romance video.
Beardy pawed at the King’s face, trying to make him cease and desist. The Scorpion King pulled him in and took a bite out of his face. As he tore away, the man’s head pinged backwards, his upper lip, nose and skin up to the bags under his eyes had been ripped away. Masticating on Beardy’s face, the man started pleading. With no top half of his face, flecks of blood and spit were sprayed over the monster’s face.
Annoyed with the facial hair which ruined the first bite, and the liquid he was being covered in, The Scorpion King brought his free arm across at a clip, smacking into the man’s head. Between the impact and the vicelike grip, his neck snapped like a Cadbury’s Flake and the body fell limp in the clawed grasp.
Regarding the flaccid body impassively, The Scorpion King dug his teeth into the exposed throat, ripping out the jugular and sending an arc of blood over the first two rows. He chewed it lazily, staring blankly at the bedlam in front of him.
“It won’t open, it won’t open!” a woman with stick dry hair and a tie-dye dress shrieked as she tried to open the thick canvas flap which led back out to the entrance walkway.
“You’re trying in the wrong place, Shirley!” shouted a man wearing a leather jacket and flared trousers. The mullet gave him the air that he had been born into the wrong decade. “The entrance was over here.” He frantically heaved the draped fabric to one side, only to find a second skin beyond, a thick material membrane which looked waterproof and idiot-proof.
The Scorpion King had worked its way through the meat of the neck, and was now covered in a thick, red soup of blood. Beardy’s head, complete with death throe scream, fell to one side. With no foundations to support it, the skull rolled around in the claw so that dead, mad, startled eyes were looking out over his own back and into the screaming masses.
Class Four: Those Who Survive Page 10
