by Paul Seiple
"What? I'm not wearing that. Who requested?"
"Maestro. He has something special planned for this evening and requested everyone be dressed in their best. Even the guests. And honestly, that flannel shirt has seen better days," Abe said.
"This shirt was perfectly fine this morning until your goons decided to drag me through the woods," Melanie said.
"Not my goons. I wasn't there. And I didn't order it. But if Maestro says you need to do something, you need to do it."
"I don't give a damn what this Maestro guy wants. I want to be at home eating pizza with pineapples on it right now. I don't have a pizza, and I don't have pineapples. And I'm not at home. We don't always get what we want," Melanie said.
Abe's tone shifted. "Look, if you don't wear this, he will take it out on me." Abe held the dress under his arm and lifted his shirt. There was just enough light to make out the six- to seven-inch welts across his chest. "These didn't feel good."
"Maestro did that to you?" Melanie asked.
"He ordered it."
"Why?"
"That's not important. But he's infatuated with you. If you do not wear this, it will be much worse for me."
Melanie sighed. "Give it to me."
Abe handed Melanie the dress and turned away from her.
"Is that all the privacy I get?" Melanie asked.
Abe looked over his shoulder. "Sorry, I was told to stay with you."
"Fine."
Melanie shuffled the flannel shirt from her shoulders. She slipped out of her T-shirt and slid into the dress. Melanie lifted it to unbutton her jeans and shimmy out of them. "You can turn around."
Abe faced her, shocked at how well the dress fit Melanie. He eyed her from toes to head and back down.
"That's creepy," Melanie said.
"Sorry, it's just... it's as if the dress was tailor-fitted for you," Abe said.
"Great. Should I be flattered?"
Abe smiled. "I'm really sorry he brought you here. You seem like a nice person. That's rare in this new world."
Melanie shifted the dress on her hips. "Why am I here?"
Abe glanced at the door as if someone was waiting on the other side. He shrugged his shoulders.
Melanie sighed and pointed her bare foot at Abe. "What about shoes?"
"I wasn't told to bring any," Abe said.
"You know nothing about women's fashion. The shoes make the dress," Melanie said.
Abe smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry."
"Do you really think I won't run barefooted if given the chance?"
"Huh?"
"The other guard told me my shoes were taken so I wouldn't run," Melanie said.
"Oh, that was Harold. He's not that smart," Abe said. "But he was right about that. It's pretty rough terrain out there. Barefoot isn't the way to go."
Abe was startled by two swift knocks on the door.
"I have to go," Abe said.
"Wait. When is the party?" Melanie asked.
"Soon."
Abe opened the door just enough to slip his slim frame through. The room went dark again.
The undeniable smell of carnival food wafting through the air woke Melanie from the brief nap. She fought sleep, but her body finally broke down from exhaustion. The odor was much stronger than before. A mash-up of folk and heavy metal replaced the carnival music.
"Awful," Melanie said as she sat up on the foam mat and crossed her legs. A dull ache resonated in the back of her head just above her neck. She had felt the pain before. Dehydration. She regretted not taking the water earlier from Harold, but she was furious he was right about her regretting it.
"He's infatuated with me?"
Melanie stood up and stretched her back against the wall. She shuffled scenarios through her mind of how this person called Maestro knew her. There was a strict policy at Winston about strangers. Very few were allowed through the gates.
"Is he someone we turned away?"
The truth was, since the migration from the fallout shelter to Winston, there weren't many visitors. Before Gary, it was probably two or three months since anyone showed up asking for help. Melanie hated to turn survivors away, but the safety of her people came first.
"You decent?"
Melanie recognized Abe's voice. She didn't answer.
"I'm coming in."
After a faint knock, the door opened. Abe had changed. He was wearing something that resembled a carnival barker's outfit.
"You're bright," Melanie said.
Abe spun around. "You like?"
"Where exactly are we?" Melanie asked.
"This used to be a county fair set-up or something. I guess the carnies just left it once the outbreak started. It's probably not as nice as where you come from, but everyone has a roof over their head when it rains."
"How many people are here?" Melanie asked.
Abe looked to the ceiling of the cell as if he were counting in his head. After a moment, he returned his attention to Melanie and smiled. "You wouldn't be sizing us up, would you?"
"Forget it. So when do I get to meet this Maestro guy?"
"Very soon. I'm here to escort you to the party," Abe said.
Eighteen
He sat in the crook of an oak tree, resting his back against a branch, eating a can of peaches. They were old and tasted more like metal than fruit, but he couldn't afford to have a picky palate. This was the first food, other than wild mushrooms and tree bark, that he had eaten in at least a week. He stopped logging how long he went between meals. It only made the hunger punch his gut harder. He paused to take a sip of water. Movement in the distance caught his eye. About four or five men dressed in bright colors paraded around a fence. The sound of oldies music began as a hum but quickly echoed through the woods.
"They get weirder every day." He laughed and returned his attention to the last of the peaches. The juice at the bottom of the can was questionable. He thought about downing it but remembered a recent bout with diarrhea and decided against it. He used the fork made out of a tree branch to try and rescue the last slice of peach from the juice. The men continued to dance and sing along to Jimmy Durante's "His Eye is on the Sparrow."
He happened upon the little group a week or so ago. They seemed to have a healthy community once you looked past the strange infatuation with carnival life. Usually, there wasn't much movement other than the occasional guard, armed with a shotgun, patrolling the area. He knew they had food and water. He also knew he had to be smart about taking it from them. This wasn't the type of group he could walk up to, strike up a conversation, and leave with a full stomach. He had been on his own for nearly two years. He had watched society fall apart. He was a pro at reading people, reading groups. Some people were welcoming, others weren't. He hadn't seen anything to make him think this group wouldn't welcome him, but they were weird, and that made him cautious. He had to wait, even with his stomach cursing him. It wouldn't be the first time he stole supplies from a camp. He wanted to make sure it wouldn't be the last. A scraping sound below startled him. He dropped the can. It clanked off a few branches before landing on the ground. The last peach slice landed onto a pile of leaves.
"Damn it."
A woman who looked to have been one of the early ones stricken with Judas stood below and dug her chipped red-painted fingernails into the tree. She tried to climb to him. Grayish, almost slimy, flesh drooped from the left side of her face. Her right eye was missing and the bone underneath the socket was exposed. A few strains of matted brown hair clung to the back of her skull.
"Are you alone?" He barely got the sentence out before laughing.
The woman dug her nails deeper into the bark. One snapped and then another.
"You really are hungry, aren't you?" he asked. "Me too."
The woman craned her neck and chomped her mouth. There was another snap and her head fell against her left shoulder. She kept opening and closing her mouth.
"All right. It was nice talking to you. It can get lone
ly out here, but you're making too much noise." He reached into his backpack, producing a hunting knife. "Hold still." He tossed the knife toward the woman. The tip sank into her forehead. She fell to her knees and rested against the tree.
He slung the pack over his shoulder and climbed down. He searched the woman for anything useful. It wasn't a surprise that she didn't have anything. He picked up the can, poured the remaining juice on the dirt, and tossed the can in his bag. The world was shit, but he wasn't going to litter it anymore. He moved on to the peach slice that was covered with ants. He bent down, shook his head, and scooped it up, brushed off as many ants he could, and ate it before disappearing back into the woods.
Nineteen
The light temporarily blinded Melanie. She squinted. After spending nearly two years in a fallout shelter, she felt her vision should be accustomed to low light, but the cell was pure darkness. Abe was a few feet in front of Melanie. He stopped walking and faced her.
"Something wrong?" Abe asked.
Melanie ignored him. Her senses were being assaulted from every direction. The smell of popcorn meshed with hot dogs. The music grew louder. It was ragtime. Scott Joplin, Melanie thought. Bright colors drew her attention away from the red and white spiral designs on a tent to her right. Fuck, clowns, she thought as five women, dressed in pink, black, and white outfits danced ahead of her.
It wasn't uncommon for people to have a fear of clowns, but for Melanie, it was closer to terror. Melanie had been mugged when she was a student in New York City. The assailants wore clown masks. She chose to move to the small town of Black Dog to get away from the everyday threat of crime. She met Dean Kurten. He seemed the perfect boyfriend until the Judas outbreak. Dean followed Melanie to North Carolina from New York. He was one of the men who robbed her. His brother was the other one. Dean blamed Melanie for his brother going to jail, even though she had nothing to do with it. Dean evolved into a serial killer determined to make Melanie a victim. She was no longer a victim. Dean found that out the hard way. She still hated clowns.
"Are you OK?" Abe asked.
"What the hell is this place?" Melanie asked.
"It's home."
Abe reached for Melanie. She drew back, lost her balance, and fell against a tent.
"It's all right." Abe took Melanie's arm. "Maestro requested you be blindfolded so as not to spoil the surprise."
"You're not blindfolding me." Melanie brushed Abe's hand away.
"It's not up for discussion. Either you let me do it or I call in help. They won't be as friendly as me," Abe said.
Melanie sized up Abe, looking for anything she could attack. He was tall and muscular, yet slim. She thought about going for the knees, but if she got him to the ground, where would she go? And he was probably right. Anyone else wouldn't be as nice, especially if she attacked Abe.
Abe shook a black cloth in Melanie's face. "What's it going to be?"
"Is he going to hurt me?" Melanie asked. She hoped the vulnerability in her voice seemed sincere. She wasn't frightened. The dancing clowns threw her off, but she had survived much worse since Dean Kurten. Melanie needed to stay calm. She needed to seem scared. She needed to stay in control.
"You're his guest," Abe said.
"You didn't answer my question." Melanie snatched the blindfold from Abe. "I'll put it on myself?"
Abe shrugged his shoulders.
Melanie covered her eyes and tied the cloth behind her head. A hand touched her face, sending shock throughout her body. She flinched but didn't cower this time.
"Sorry. I need make sure you can't see," Abe said.
"Whatever."
Maestro sat in the center of the room with his eyes closed and swaying his head to Scott Joplin's "Maple Leaf Rag." Sylvia stood in the doorway watching, half admiring the man she viewed as a god and half out of fear of disturbing him. Her foot dragged the ground as she shifted.
"What is it?" Maestro said.
"I'm... sorry. It's just... It's time," Sylvia said.
"Is everything prepared to my liking?"
"Yes," Sylvia said. "I checked myself."
Maestro lifted the needle from the record. He sat in silence for a moment. The quiet worried Sylvia. She couldn't read Maestro. No one could. He was a master at hiding his emotions. He preached it to his congregation. Control was the ultimate power. He stood, turned to Sylvia, and smiled.
"I believe you."
Relief washed over Sylvia. She smiled back. Maestro motioned for her to come forward. He took her hand and traced the lines of her palms. His touch was soft yet electric. Sylvia felt power through his fingertips. She would follow Maestro to hell if he asked her to.
"What do the lines tell you?" Sylvia asked.
"It's not important, my dear."
Maestro kissed the back of Sylvia's hand. He read her fate line, which became thinner near the center of her palm. The reading usually meant most of good fortune came with youth. As the person grew older, the fortune would worsen. Maestro cared about Sylvia, but he knew at any moment he could lose her to a threat. He felt that way about most of his congregation. A select few like Miles weren't getting it, and while Maestro prided himself on his patience, those not getting it would be the first thrown to the wolves if the time ever came.
"Why did you want to bring her here?" Sylvia asked.
Maestro sensed the jealousy in Sylvia's tone. He thought about correcting her. Jealousy was an emotion frowned upon, much like anger, but a small part of him liked Sylvia's curiosity.
"You'll see, my dear. But I assure you, she will never take your place," Maestro said.
Melanie held resolve even as Abe's grip tightened around her forearm. He led her through a cloud of chatter. Melanie didn't need the sense of sight to know she was the topic of conversation. She felt eyes gawking at her.
"She's really pretty."
"A little skinny, but yeah, she's nice."
Melanie didn't want to see the faces behind the voices making her skin crawl. What's next? Catcalling? she thought. Abe pulled her to the right. The temperature felt as though it dropped twenty degrees. A musty smell clung to the air. Melanie felt it in the back of her throat. She coughed.
"Are we in a basement?" Melanie asked.
"Nope," Abe said.
"A fallout shelter?"
"No." Abe pressed his palm into her shoulder, stopping Melanie. He pressed down on her gently. "Sit. It will be starting soon."
"Wait, you're going to leave me here?" Melanie asked.
"Sorry, I have to get ready," Abe said, grabbing Melanie's wrists and securing them with rope.
"What the hell, Abe?"
"We can't have you peeking," Abe said.
The ragtime music was low, barely audible. The aroma of carnival food bullied the musty smell until it was almost an afterthought. Something waved through Melanie's hair like a subtle wind. She shook her head. It happened again.
"Is someone there?" Melanie asked.
There was a giggle. Melanie's hair moved again, tickling her forehead. The smell of strawberries rushed Melanie's nose. Someone was blowing in her face.
"Stop it," Melanie said.
"No."
Another puff of air hit Melanie, followed by another giggle.
"Maestro is the only person who tells me what to do."
The voice mimicked a child, but through the inflection, Melanie could tell it was an adult female. She felt something trace her eyes through the blindfold.
"Never bend your head. Always hold it high. Look the world straight in the eye."
The woman repeated the words three times before Melanie jerked her head away.
"What's wrong? Not a Helen Keller fan?"
"Not a creepy-bitch-trying-to-be-a-kid fan," Melanie said.
"Amanda, leave her alone."
Abe's voice gave Melanie a little comfort.
"You can't tell me what to do," Amanda said.
"I can tell Maestro that you're annoying his guest," Abe said.
&n
bsp; "Fine." Amanda leaned forward until her cheek touched Melanie's ear and whispered, "Enjoy the show."
The music blended into one continuous song. Melanie's toes tingled from sitting for so long. Her feet throbbed from being cold. The ache radiated up her shins and settled in her knees. Her shoulders felt as though she had held her arms above her head for too long. Melanie's throat itched. She swallowed hard, trying to wash the tickle away, but it remained, and led to a piercing behind her right ear. Melanie wanted to blame the pain on the looping ragtime music. She knew better. Melanie was getting sick. James had warned her of something going around Winston. She had ignored him. Melanie hadn't been sick for years, long before the Judas outbreak. She joked to James about having an invincible immune system. But the joke was on her. Her body picked the absolute worst time to let foreign invaders in. As if being a prisoner to some sort of weird cult wasn't enough, now she had to deal with a cold. At least she hoped it was as simple as that. When someone fell ill in Winston, Melanie worried Judas had found an evolution that allowed it to infect the immune. The virus was smart, according to James. It was smarter than man. It was only a matter of time before Judas broke through the immunity. In this world, the will to survive was the only thing that mattered. And from what Melanie saw, she feared Judas had a stronger will than humankind.
The music came to an abrupt stop. An eerie silence fell over the air. The quiet didn't last. A man with a deep voice cleared his throat into a microphone. The reverberations sent gooseflesh rippling over Melanie's forearms.
"The show will begin in less than ten minutes," the man said. "I've seen the rehearsals. Believe me, Maestro has outdone himself this time."
Cheers rang throughout the air.
"I'd like to take a moment to introduce you to our guest of honor. Miss Melanie Carpenter."
More cheers.
"I have to admit, I'm quite envious of you, Miss Carpenter. You have captured the undivided attention of our Maestro."
"The feeling is not mutual," Melanie said.
