Circus of Blood

by James R. Tuck

  My hand slapped her chest, fingers digging in.

  She hung at the end of my arm, lunging toward me.

  The gun in my hand pointed at her face.

  She’s a hurt girl. She can’t help it.

  Jaws snapping.

  You won’t be able to forgive yourself.

  My finger found the trigger.

  Have mercy.

  Rabid mouth biting. My arm trembling, about to give.

  My finger tightened.

  Fallene’s head jerked back.

  She slumped forward. Limp. Boneless. Lifeless.

  I pushed her off, scrambling from beneath her. She fell to the floor with a thump, sprawling out.

  A priest stood in the doorway, holding an Airsnipe Armageddon T-38 tranquilizer dart gun.

  Father Mulcahy pulled the cigarette from his mouth, blew out a stream of smoke.

  “Need some help?”

  6

  “Sonnuvabitch!”

  “Quit yer bitchin’. You’ve had worse.”

  “I’m gonna disagree with you.”

  “That doesn’t make you any more right.”

  “Don’t ash on my wound.”

  The priest with the cigarette stabbed the curved needle into my leg again. It punched through the edge of the jagged wound, sliding to the opposite edge, where it popped out the other side. He gave it a tug and a yank, pulling the edges of the wound tight together.

  It hurt like a bastard.

  There was a deep hole in my leg from one of the hooked talons on Fallene’s feet. It had been washed out with antiseptic, which burned like boiling acid, and then packed with antibiotics. Larson was examining the Were-bat, trying to figure out why she had shifted and then gone rabid. This left Father Mulcahy to stitch me up.

  It wasn’t the first time. Father Mulcahy had been with me since the beginning of my war, visiting me right after my family had been killed by a monster.

  I don’t want to talk about that. It’s too painful. Move on.

  He was my mentor, my spiritual covering, my Church connection, bartender, and sometimes field surgeon. He wasn’t gentle, but he was thorough. He stabbed the needle through one last time and then tied the stitch off in a quick little knot. One snip of scissors and it was done.

  “There. Neat as a pin.” He rolled his stool back and stripped off latex gloves.

  I looked down, the stitches were tight, tiny black lines that lay across the jagged tear like they had been laid in with a sewing machine. The sutured wound was high on my calf. The Were-bat claw had dug down, sinking deep through and behind the muscle. It sat in the center of a swipe of scar tissue that replaced skin. That was left over from a few months ago when I had misjudged how wide a puddle of napalm and liquefied lycanthrope was. It had splashed up over my calf, scorching away the skin. When it healed I had a patch of scar tissue the size of a piece of paper that looked like slick rubber.

  I rolled over and sat up. The cuff of my jeans scraped the stitches in a rub of fire. It was tight over my calf, the muscle sore and swollen. It throbbed, a hot pulse of pain clenching the muscle as I put pressure on it.

  Yeah, this was gonna be awesome.

  Father Mulcahy squinted at me. “You need to lay down and prop that up. Take it easy on it for a few weeks.”

  “You know better than that.”

  “Yeah, but it had to be said.”

  “I’ll get Larson to load me up before we go.”

  Larson kept a cornucopia of painkillers and antibiotics on hand for just such occasions.

  The door crashed opened. Larson wheeled in, face sour and twisted.

  “That looks like good news.”

  His hands grabbed the wheels of his chair, skidding him to a stop. “Rabies.”

  “Rabies? Are you kidding me?”

  “That’s what it is. It’s not just regular old run-of-the-mill rabies though. This strain is virulent and highly contagious.”

  Father Mulcahy took a puff. “Contagious to humans?”

  “No, but it’s not selective among lycanthropes. It’s non-species specific.” A thin hand ran through carrot-colored hair. “It’s not a natural strain of the disease. It causes homicidal aggression and it has accelerated her metabolism, burning her up faster than I can shove food into her through a feeding tube.”

  “How long does she have?”

  “Hours. She won’t last until morning.”

  “How did the Were-bat lassie get exposed to that?”

  I knew the answer to that. To me it was obvious. Again, there are no coincidences when it comes to supernatural shit. You had a Were-bat beaten nearly to death by vampires and infected with a supernatural version of rabies.

  No fucking way that was a coincidence.

  I explained my theory. Larson and the priest nodded in agreement with my hypothesis.

  I looked at Larson. “Can you cure her?”

  “Not without the original strain to manufacture an antivirus or a lot more time.” He stroked his Jesus beard. “There’s more bad news.”

  “Go ahead and get it over with.”

  “The virus seems to have mutated. It’s airborne now.”

  My mind flashed back to the waiting room full of lycanthropes. All of them exposed and carrying this disease. They had scattered, going back to families and friends who were lycanthropes. At this point most of the lycanthrope community could be infected.

  All of them were ticking time bombs. A disease growing inside them that would flip the switch, turning them into murderous, rampaging beasts.

  Lycanthropes are damn hard to kill. Fallene had nearly taken me out earlier and she had already been beat near to death. If all of the healthy lycanthropes who were exposed went berserk at once, it would be a bloodbath. The death toll would be off the charts. The supernatural cat would be out of the bag. There would be all-out war between monsters and humans.

  Humans would die by the thousands.

  And the hits just keep on comin’.

  7

  “What are you still doing here?”

  Sully was leaning on the Comet, hands deep in his pocket. “Waiting to see what the news was. How’s Fallene?”

  “Worse.” I stepped around him, keys in hand. Father Mulcahy moved to the passenger-side door.

  Sully backed up a few steps as I swung the door open. “Where are you going?”

  “Don’t know yet. We’ll figure that out on the way.”

  “Are you leaving or going to do something to help Fallene?”

  “What’s your deal, man? You have a crush on the girl or what?”

  “I’m just worried about her, that’s all.”

  “The sooner you move, the sooner we get on our way to helping her.”

  He fidgeted, fingers flipping the top of a knock-off Zippo. “Let me come.”

  I looked over the roof of the Comet at Father Mulcahy. He shrugged. No help whatsoever.

  I looked at Sully. He wasn’t impressive looking. Average, maybe even a little on the small side, he wasn’t imposing in any shape, form, or fashion. Then again, he didn’t have to be. He was a lycanthrope. Weres are wicked fast and far stronger than humans. They heal like magic, everything but fire and silver. Plus, in their animal form, they had built-in weapons. Cracked-out versions of claws and fangs and whatever other deadly shit that their animal came stock from the factory with.

  In my years though, I have found that lycanthropes are people first and Were-animals second. If they are cowards, or weak, or suffer from anxiety attacks, then that carries with them when they shift. Hell, I know a Were-crocodile that faints at the sight of blood and Were-falcon who is afraid of heights. Then again I also know a Were-Pomeranian named Phoebe Fluffenstuff that will gut someone with her samurai sword as casually as you would slice a pie.

  So I looked at Sully. Hard. He straightened under my gaze, looked me in the eye without flinching. I thought about it as I sized him up. He kept it together enough to bring Fallene to Larson’s and was still here after her r
abid rampage through the clinic earlier.

  I hoped I didn’t regret this.

  “Get in.”

  Sully darted around me, slipping into the backseat. I fell in behind the chain-link steering wheel and cranked the ignition. The Comet rumbled to life.

  Father Mulcahy lit a cancerstick, match-flame cracking across the tip. He chuckled. “Softie.”

  “Kiss my ass.” Flipping my phone open, my thumb found the right button, sending ten digits into space to bounce off a satellite as I swung the hot rod out onto the road.

  “Polecats, this is Kathleen, how can I help you?”

  “Kat, are you up to date on the Fallene situation?”

  “Yes.” That’s Kat. Short and sweet. All business. It’s not that she didn’t have a sense of humor, but it was so dry that most people didn’t get it. I guess it worked for Larson.

  “Get a view of Highway 20. Check a ten-mile radius from mile marker nineteen. I’m looking for anything that would hide a pretty large kiss of vampires.”

  The soft sound of fingers on a keyboard came through the phone. Fallene had been dropped shortly after sundown. The vampires who had her would have been in hiding until then, so they were close to the drop point. With a flyer carrying her, that could be ten miles, but not more.

  I could picture Kat in front of her computer. The screen would be flashing rapid-fire images, her blond hair would be pulled into a drum-tight ponytail, brow furrowed as she searched. She would be obsessive since we were dealing with vampires.

  Kat hates vampires. She has her reasons: a dead sister and months as a captive of a sadistic, bloodsucking bastard named Darius, to name a few. Her hatred burned hotter than the sun. It would drive her to find the information I needed.

  Her voice broke into the connection. “I’ve got two possibilities.”

  “Shoot.”

  “There’s a strip of railroad track that has been out of use for thirty years. There’s an abandoned railcar on it. It would be sunproof.”

  It didn’t feel right.

  In this job, you learn to trust your instincts. My gut has saved my ass too many times to count.

  “What’s choice number two?”

  “There’s a small carnival in a field approximately six miles from mile marker nineteen.”

  My mind clicked back to earlier.

  “Can you tell me anything about them or where they had you?”

  A tear rolled down her face. “It hurt. God it hurt so bad.” The tremors got worse, her body shaking under the blanket. “I smelled . . . peanuts.”

  Jackpot.

  8

  Shit.

  We found the carnival without a problem. There were actually signs, garishly painted clapboard that leered off the side of the road, just a few miles from mile marker nineteen. After that we bounced down a two-lane gravel road, winding through a wooded area until it dumped us into a clearing that once was a cow pasture. No turns, no choices. The destination had been inevitable.

  A small city of circus tents and carnival rides spilled out over a hill. It was surrounded by a canvas and wood wall, about six feet in height. Bubble lights strung between the red and black tents like luminescent pearls. The rides spun and whirled in chases of bright neon, cutting merrily through the night. It shone, bright and inviting. A place of family fun and wonder. Come one, come all. Bring your children. Bring your loved ones.

  It was a lantern fish.

  A bright and shiny bauble dangling in the dark. Come and see, come and see, little fishy. Just a little closer . . . Until suddenly the dark explodes with teeth and blood and chum.

  Shit.

  The gravel lot surrounding it was full of cars.

  Double shit.

  Wheeling the Comet around, I backed her to the end of the gravel, getting as close as I could while leaving her open and unblocked for a quick getaway.

  Stepping out of the car, my nose was assaulted. Popcorn, fried food, peanuts, the scents and smells of a carnival. I sniffed deep, drawing it in.

  There, burrowed underneath, was the dry, musty stink of shed skin and spoiled venom.

  Vampires.

  Bingo.

  Father Mulcahy stepped out of the car on the other side. He moved a few steps as Sully got out.

  “Grab the stuff from the glove compartment. I’m going to check the trunk.”

  He nodded.

  The trunk lid popped up with a twist of the key. I started digging around. A .30-06 in a case. Known as the redneck sniper rifle, it was a powerful bolt-action that could drop a bullet three point two miles away.

  That wouldn’t work for tonight.

  Tonight we were going to be close and dirty. And now that there was a parking lot full of civilians, we were going to have to try to stay quiet. Subtle.

  Yeah, right.

  I dug in some more. Moving stuff around.

  Two-hand, double-bladed axe. Damn thing was nearly as long as Father Mulcahy was tall. It would work, but might draw attention.

  Tow chain and U-bolts. Great if I was going to get stuck in the mud.

  Sack of phosphorus grenades. That’s where I put those. Still too much.

  Pair of bolt cutters. You never know when you might need them.

  Half-full can of kerosene. I couldn’t remember what that was for.

  Finally I came up with a sword cane, a hatchet, a piano wire garrote, a pouch full of silvered shuriken, and a stubby wooden stake.

  Yep, it’s a weird job.

  I shut the trunk. Father Mulcahy and Sully were standing there, both smoking. The priest had a handful of blessed rosaries and stoppered tubes of holy water. He handed three or four of the rosaries to Sully. “Put these around your neck, under your shirt for now.”

  Sully crossed himself. “Thank you, Father. It’s been a while since my last confession.”

  “Are you feeling contrite, son?”

  Sully shrugged. He looked down, sheepish.

  Father Mulcahy took a long puff of his cancerstick, dropped it, and ground it out with the toe of his combat boots. “Have you done anything heinous? Killed anyone, sold drugs, harmed a child?”

  Sully recoiled. “No, no, hell no, Father. I drink too much on Saturdays, and I haven’t gone to Mass since Saint Patrick’s Day, but that’s it.” He pushed his hat back. “Well, except for that night with Mary Sue Latimer last month. That was definitely a sin. She was a wild one. She—”

  “I don’t need details, son.”

  “Sorry, Father.”

  “Take your hat off.” Sully did, bowing his head. Father Mulcahy waved a calloused hand over him in the sign of the cross. “I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

  He reached in his pocket, pulled out a crumpled pack of Kools, and shook one out. Sully still had his head bowed. “That’s all, son.”

  The Were-weasel lifted his head. “That’s it? No Act of Contrition?”

  The Zippo flared in Father Mulcahy’s hand. “You’re about to walk into a circus full of undead bloodsuckers. Consider yourself covered.”

  I handed out weapons. “Amen to that.” Father Mulcahy got the sword cane, Sully the wooden stake. I kept the rest.

  A pipe organ cranked up as we began to walk. It was deep inside the carnival, its music spilling over the canvas wall and out to us in the field. It wheezed and slurred through a song, discordant notes clanging every so often. The music seduced you, a drunk uncle with bad intentions. Just as your nerves would settle, one of those notes would sound, jarring across your optic nerves.

  Great, just what I needed, a shitty soundtrack to this fucking movie.

  9

  The sign loomed over us. It arched across a center pole that had been driven straight into the ground. Deep. Talon marks scarred the pole at about chest level. Something had driven it into place.

  Something with claws and inhuman strength.

  The sign blinked, outlined in round bulbs that stuttered into the night. Words swept acro
ss it in a flourish of black and crimson.

  “Cirque du Sangre.” Sully turned to us. “I don’t understand.”

  “Did you think it would be called ‘Vamps Be Here’?”

  “No.”

  “Circus of Blood.” Father Mulcahy read aloud around his cancerstick. “They might as well have.”

  We stepped through the archway.

  Gravel crunched underfoot.

  The midway was empty.

  We were all alone. Not one person darkened the street. The carnival stretched before us post-apocalyptically desolate.

  Strings of lights slithered overhead, swinging low, threatening to drop and wrap an unwary neck. Smaller tents lined the walls of the midway, canvas booths sewn in ebony and crimson. The stitches were haphazard, juttering back and forth along seams like badly sutured wounds. They flapped around games that sat inside their folds. Bait.

  Ping-Pong Ball and Fishbowls.

  All the bowls lining the table were filled with murky water. Things swirled inside. In the center, something did a quick flip that slung out a few fetid droplets.

  Whac-A-Mole.

  The rims of the holes spattered with chunky gore to match the ends of the mallets. One tiny, sleek-furred body hung, stuck in a hole by its back legs. The front of its body swung freely and loosely, little paws clawing weakly at the air under it.

  We kept walking.

  The Wurlitzer kept playing, pelting us with its nerve-grating, off-kilter tune.

  Past the game booths, the midway opened up.

  Sully gagged, the noise pulled out of his throat and squeezed to death. Tears ran hot and oily on his face. “What is that?”

  “Breathe through your mouth, son.”

  I was already following the priest’s advice, but the stench in the air coated the inside of my mouth in a thick greasy layer. It clotted in my throat, trying to yank my stomach up through it.

  Spoiled meat.

  Things fried in rancid oil.

  Strychnine-sweet cotton candy.

  Boiled peanuts left to mold.

  The acrid nose ruffle of burned popcorn.

  They all combined in the textured perfume of corruption.

  Rides moved on the midway edge, crouching beasts in the grass.