“Boss, what happened?” Cakey asked.
“Questions, mostly,” Telly said, lying down. “Some minor punching and kicking, as well, but questions, mostly. About clowns, about Fayette, about West Fork, about the sickness. I offered to put on a free show for the troops, help the morale and all that, really cranked up the charm…but I didn’t win them over.”
“What does that mean?” Karl said.
“It means things will be worse,” Telly said. “Now, lemme sleep, you lot. I’m tired.” He closed his eyes, but before he fell asleep, he muttered, “I wish they’d let me keep my hat. Took my money from the last show, too. Took it right out of my pocket.” Telly went to sleep muttering complaints under his breath.
David tried to sleep, closing his eyes, but he couldn’t quite settle himself. Long hours passed with the sound of vehicles moving about behind them, formations of soldiers marching here and there. Most of the others slept, Gooty’s snore rising above all else, but David only managed to hover in the darkness behind his eyes.
Even that was interrupted when the screaming began. Recognizing the sound of the voice—or, at least the style of the voice—David bolted up from the floor, crawled over to the door of his cage and clutched the bars. He saw two soldiers bearing a prisoner between them, an emaciated creature with wild eyes and a large patch of burned skin covering most of his left cheek. He hardly looked the same, but the clothes gave him away—tattered overalls, a dirty once-was-white t-shirt. Bare feet, hands caked in grime and dried blood, his scalp a patchwork of scabs, lips bisected by a deep cut. As they dragged him down the row of cages, he writhed and kicked and made odd mewling noises.
“Hess, you old rascal,” Cakey called out. “Glad to see you could join us!”
He looked at Cakey, growled and tried to lunge at him.
“Clown! All your fault,” he shouted. “All your fault!”
One of the soldiers twisted his arm, and the growl became a shriek of pain. They dragged him to a cage directly across from David, flung him hard to the floor and kicked him in the ribs. He curled up on his side, grabbing his chest and baring his teeth, as they slammed the door shut and left.
Once they were gone, Hess raved for a while, thrashing about the cage, shaking the bars, beating his forehead against the door, but eventually he gave up and lay down, panting.
It was mid-afternoon when the next prisoner was brought, a bruised and bedraggled mess of a man in a ripped shirt and linen pants. His fine red robe was long gone, and he had only black dress socks on his feet. The left leg of his pants had been torn off at the knee, the hairless leg that stuck out misshapen as a loaf of bread. He had a bloody nose, and the blood had left twin trails down the sides of his face and into the many sagging folds of his fat jowls.
Telly, Gooty and Karl, all sleeping, missed his arrival, but Cakey was up, pressed to the door, waving at him daintily.
“Councilman Peavey, old pal,” Cakey said. “I was sort of hoping I’d shot you.”
Peavey ignored him, refusing to make eye contact.
“Glad you could join us in hell,” Cakey added and turned the dainty wave into a rude gesture.
They started to place the Councilman in a cage next to Hess, but Hess snarled, crawled over to the bars and tried to grab at him. One of the soldiers opened Hess’s cage and gave him another round of kicks and stomps, until he settled down. Then they moved Peavey farther down the row, putting him in a cage well out of reach.
After Peavey came Officer Mayes, her hair singed almost to the roots, a dirty bandage wrapped around her head from chin to crown. One eye was swollen shut. They put her in a cage next to Peavey.
“It’s like a reunion of all the people who’ve ever tried to kill us,” Cakey said.
“There aren’t nearly enough cages here for that,” Annabelle said.
The soldiers left again.
“Councilman Peavey and his trusted guard,” Cakey said. “Together again. How’d they manage to capture you, you crafty old thing? Run out of bullets shooting at clowns?”
“Don’t you talk to me,” Peavey said, dabbing at his nose with his sleeve. “You brought this upon us. You stirred up the sick in West Fork.”
“Well, who exiled them to West Fork in the first place, old chap?” Cakey said. “I’m sure there was lingering resentment.”
Officer Mayes said something, but since the bandage held her mouth shut, David didn’t understand a word of it. Cakey, however, chuckled as if he had and waggled his fingers at her. Fortunately, at that point, the conversation died.
Eventually, David managed a bit of sleep, but it didn’t last nearly long enough. When the trucks woke him, his head was swimming. He opened his eyes to the early evening sky, heavy clouds rolling in from the west. Sitting up, he saw a row of trucks, armored transport vehicles like the one that had taken them out of Fayette, approaching the cages. Lines of soldiers marched on either side.
“Looks like this is it, folks,” Cakey said softly.
The trucks turned just before they reached the cages and backed in. Soldiers moved to open the doors, revealing metal benches in small, dark compartments. Then they moved into formation, rifles at the ready. Captain Helt appeared, striding down the line of cages, his thumbs tucked under his belt. He paused at Hess’s cage and bent down to examine him. Hess was curled up on his side, his face hidden under his arm. David, though his view was limited, saw what appeared to be a puddle of blood and vomit around his head.
“This one appears to be dead,” the captain said over his shoulder. “Dispose of the body.”
Two soldiers moved to the cage, unlocked the door and dragged the limp body out onto the dirt. Hess’s eyes were open, glassy, his mouth hanging slack, dripping a kind of foamy blood.
“Touching the dead bodies of sick people is a good way to pick up a few brain worms,” Cakey said. “Don’t you know that, Captain?”
Captain Helt turned to face Cakey, a bemused smile on his face.
“In Tockland, we do not fear the sickness,” he said.
“And why would that be, my good man?”
Instead of answering, the captain resumed striding down the row of cages. Everyone was awake now. Karl sat upright, anxiously twirling the ends of his mustache. Gooty was on his knees, bent over, hands clasped, whispering under his breath. Telly stood at the door of his cage, holding the bars, watching.
“A most unusual request has been made,” the captain said, stopping at the end of the row, glancing at Gooty, then Karl, then Peavey. “You are all to be guests of General Joseph Mattock. Something about the situation in Fayette has intrigued him, and he has elected to deal with you in person.”
David caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he saw Annabelle reaching through the bars of his cage, fingers splayed. It took him a moment, in his addled state, to realize what she wanted. He grabbed her hand, and she clamped down tightly. Her mouth opened, and her lip trembled, as if she meant to say something, but she couldn’t seem to get the words out.
“As prisoners of Tockland, I counsel you to be…” Captain Helt spun his hand in the air, searching for the right word. “…deferential. Submissive. Speak only when spoken to. Otherwise, this will all be a lot more unpleasant. A lot more unpleasant.”
“Did you tell your General that we are only performers?” Telly asked, as the captain walked past him, heading back to the trucks. “We have no part of this war. We are mere entertainers, friends to all.”
But the captain ignored him, pushed his way through the line of soldiers and was gone.
As soon as he was out of sight, the soldiers went into motion, opening cages, dragging prisoners out. David’s hand was pulled out of Annabelle’s grasp, cuffs snapped onto his wrists—metal cuffs this time, not plastic. He was marched down the line, loaded into the back of a truck, clipped to a metal bench. It all happened so quickly, every movement efficient. Even Cakey, it seemed, had run out of clever remarks. The group was split up between the four vehicles. Telly, G
ooty and Cakey went in one, David, Belle and Karl in another, Peavey and Mayes in the third. The fourth, apparently meant for Hess, went unused, as his lifeless body was dragged by the feet across the dirt toward the Quonset huts.
David was already shaking with the old familiar poison when they slammed the door shut. Because it was evening, no light came through the narrow window at the top of the door, so they sat in darkness. At the last moment, before the engine rumbled to life, and they began their final journey, Karl cleared his throat and said, “Look at it as another performance, kid, that’s all. Another performance with a slightly more dangerous audience.”
“What, performing for our own execution?” Annabelle said breathlessly.
And then the engine awoke, the truck shuddered, and they were on their way.
Chapter Twenty One
Tockland
Parched and exhausted, David stepped down out of the truck and saw the sprawling concrete edifice rising up like gray bones from the hilltop. They were led up a winding path between two rows of armed soldiers and through a three inch-thick door of steel painted black. Officer Mayes balked at the door, so Captain Helt hit her in the back of the head with the butt of a rifle. She fell on her hands and knees, and another soldier kicked her in the face. Blood burst from both nostrils.
“Next time you get a bullet,” Helt said from behind her, as two soldiers pulled to her feet.
Through the heavy door, they entered a high hall, an arched ceiling over a polished marble floor. A massive Tockland flag hung from one end of the ceiling, bathed in the glow of three powerful spotlights. Soldiers stood along the walls, guarding numerous doors. The prisoners were marched in a straight line from the entrance to a set of double doors, each emblazoned with the silver star, on the opposite wall.
The doors were pulled open as they approached. Peavey went first, guarded on either side. Officer Mayes was next. Then Gooty, Annabelle and David. Through the double doors into a long, narrow room with a low ceiling. Tiles of alternating black and silver, polished to a mirror shine, covered the floor and walls. On the far side of the room, a dais rose a few inches from the floor, a curtain bearing the silver star covering the wall behind it. But it was to the middle of the room that Captain Helt drew their attention. A metal contraption rose from the floor here, a kind of segmented bar with numerous metal clips spaced at regular intervals along its length. Peavey was led to the end of the bar, made to kneel, and his handcuffs were attached to one of the clips. The bar was low enough that it kept him kneeling and forced him to bow forward slightly. Officer Mayes was clipped in place next to him. Then Gooty, Annabelle, David, Telly, Cakey and Karl, in that order. When David knelt, his gaze fell upon a small drain hole in the middle the floor just in front of the contraption, and he realized that the floor had a slight downward slope leading to the drain.
When they had all been secured, Captain Helt stepped around the contraption and approached—but did not step onto—the dais. He turned to face the prisoners, snapped to attention and slung his rifle over his shoulder. Other soldiers took up positions all around the room, one in each corner, four along the side walls, two at the double doors.
“Prisoners of Tockland,” Helt said, and his voice echoed a thousand times against the tile walls. “You will speak only when addressed. You will show proper respect at all times, in all ways. You will do as you are told. The decision rendered will be just, for the General is only ever in all things just.”
He tapped a boot on the ground and saluted. The curtain parted in the middle, and David saw more soldiers behind it, standing in a shadowy alcove. Beside him, Annabelle whimpered. He tried to reach for her, to take her hand, but the cuffs and the clip only allowed a few inches of movement.
“General Joseph Mattock of the Empire of Tockland,” Captain Helt said, uttering the name in a low sing-song voice, as if it were the lyrics to some demented song.
The general stepped out of the darkness, and every soldier went down on one knee, even Captain Helt. General Joseph Mattock, draped all in black, a uniform like the soldiers but overlaid with a long cloak. He had thick leather gloves on his hands, oversized boots, a short-brimmed hat with a single polished silver star in the center. A long face, deeply-lined, heavy brow over mud-colored eyes, a broad nose, bent slightly as if broken. He took deliberate steps to the end of the dais and gazed down upon his prisoners for long seconds, expressionless. A shiny leather belt held many weapons, a pistol on either side, two knives sheathed next to each other, a wooden baton. He drew the baton out and tapped it against his gloved palm.
“Rise,” he said, as he stepped down off the dais.
The soldiers, as one, in a movement clearly ingrained in them from repetition, rose to their feet.
Captain Helt saluted, but Mattock walked past him, approaching the contraption and the line of prisoners attached to it. David tasted bile in the back of his throat. As the general drew near, Annabelle twitched. David dared a glance at her and saw that she had lowered her face to her hands, closed her eyes and touched her forehead with the tip of her middle finger. She held this position for a second, then seemed to catch herself, clasped her hands and shook her head.
But Mattock had seen. A slow smile crept up his face, and he pointed the baton at Annabelle.
“Look at this one,” he said. A coarse voice, pitched higher than David expected. “This girl, she knows the Tocklander salute, the citizen’s salute.”
Annabelle bit her lip and shook her head again. “No, I…” The words came out as a little squeak, barely audible.
Mattock strode over to her, stooped down and tried to make eye contact. This close, he had a peculiar smell, medicinal and unnatural, as if chemicals were oozing out of his pores. He reached out and cupped her chin, lifting her face and forcing eye contact.
“You did it without thinking,” he said. “Ah, yes, a Tocklander never truly leaves. You are indeed one of mine, one of my lost ones returned to me at last. Is it not so?”
She tried to look away. Finally, he laughed, let her chin fall—in doing so, she banged her face into the contraption and gasped in pain—and rose again, stepping back to take in the prisoners once more.
“What an interesting situation we have discovered in the wayward city of Fayette,” he said.
The eye of every prisoner, excepting Annabelle, was fixed upon him. Peavey’s mouth was open, jaw working, as if he wanted to speak but had forgotten how. Mattock paced back and forth, examining every face. He paused at Cakey.
“What is the nature of this?” he asked, tracing a circle around his face.
“That is your face, sir,” Cakey said. “And a handsome face it is, indeed.”
Mattock smiled and looked back at Captain Helt. “Sarcastic or mad? What’s your call, Captain?”
“Possibly both, sir,” Helt said. “His face seems to be covered in tattoos.”
“And what do they signify?” Mattock asked Cakey. “What are you, exactly?”
“I, sir, am a clown,” Cakey said. “An entertainer of the highest order. Juggling and derring-do are my stock in trade. The stage is where—”
“Yes, yes, enough,” Mattock said, raising a hand to stop him.
He moved on down the line, stopping in front of Telly. “A disfigured child?”
“No, sir,” Telly said. “A man, shorter than most but a man nonetheless.”
“Peculiar. How tall are you, then?” He tapped the baton against his palm.
“Four feet and one half inches,” Telly said. “Look, your grace—your excellency or highness, or whichever is appropriate—we are merely performers. We mean no harm to anyone, nor have we in any way meant offense—”
Mattock raised his hand again and resumed pacing. Back and forth, back and forth. He stopped in front of Karl and eyed him for a moment without comment, no emotion on his face. Then he started back the other way. When his gaze passed over David, David felt a shiver run down his spine. He held his breath until Mattock had moved past him.
/> “A true Southwestern man,” Mattock said, stopping in front of Gooty. “A long way from home, aren’t we?”
Gooty drew a deep, shaky breath. “Yes, sir, but I have not been in Southwest Territories for a long, long time. I…I have no loyalties to that place anymore. I swear—”
“No loyalties,” Mattock said, cutting him off. “No loyalties. Interesting.”
He sniffed, then turned and walked back to the dais. He faced the curtain for a moment, tapping out a rhythm against his hand. Then he slid the baton back under his belt and turned.
“You,” he said, pointing to Peavey. “You with the bulldog face. What is your name?”
Peavey cleared his throat. “I am Councilman Clance Peavey, duly elected, of the High Council of Fayette.”
“Duly elected,” Mattock repeated. “Yes, of course. And tell me, duly elected Councilman Peavey, why is the sunburst seal of the Southwestern Territories drawn in tile on the floor of your Council House?”
“Sir…sir…I…” Peavey had no response to this, but he spent a few seconds stuttering out nonsense, as if to make up for it. Finally, his jowls quivered, and he fell silent.
“Allow me to answer for you,” Mattock said. “We have been watching Fayette for quite some time, Councilman Peavey. We have tracked the shipments of arms. We watched the Southwesterners build your mighty wall, the very wall that an unarmed band of infected outcasts managed to breach by sheer force of will. We watched the Southwesterners hang their vile crimson pennant from the dome of your Council House. And we asked ourselves, Why is this happening? What is there to be gained by it?”
“Sir…sir…we never meant…we never…” Peavey continued to stutter. Mattock raised a hand to silence him, but Peavey kept on. Finally, Mattock gestured at one the soldiers against the wall. The soldier stepped up to Peavey and kicked him in the face. Peavey’s lip burst. He pressed his hand to his mouth, but the blood poured between his fingers and dripped onto the polished tile floor.
Shadows of Tockland Page 28
