by Joe Hart
With a flourish, the man in the tall hat flings his arm out and the gate rumbles aside. The men surge forward, hands outstretched to drop crumpled bills on the ticket man’s counter along with aluminum cans that gleam beneath the lights before being swept away inside the booth.
Zoey watches the line move, feet shuffling, yells and yips piercing the night. She tugs at the large hood, assuring herself that her face is covered, and inhales deeply before stepping out of the shadows.
She walks, head down, seeing only the rough ground at her feet as she approaches the entrance. Her vision vibrates with each heartbeat.
This could be it. She could be discovered in the next few minutes and there would be no escaping. The urge to turn around and flee into the safety of the darkness is almost overpowering. How much money should she pay for entrance? She couldn’t see the numbers on the cash itself that the men paid before her but it appeared as if they were laying at least three bills down. She’ll have to take a chance. Her legs nearly betray her a dozen steps from the gate and she stumbles slightly.
“Whoa, old man! Too much to drink already tonight?” a voice says from her left. Zoey lifts her head enough to see one of the guards gesturing in her direction. “Gotta pace yourself! Too much excitement and you’ll be a puddle in an hour we’ll have to mop up!” A chorus of laughter rebounds around her and she digs in her pocket, drawing out several crumpled bills with the number fifty on them, so thankful she had enough wits to bring a pair of ratty gloves to hide her hands. She places the money on the counter when it comes into view and waits, almost able to feel the entrance man’s stare burning holes in the side of the hood. After a pregnant pause a hand snatches the cash away.
“I’ll just keep the extra as a tip,” the man with the tall hat says. “Probably can’t count anyways. Get on with ya!” She moves forward, trying not to run. Instead she shambles in what she hopes appears to be a drunken stupor. Zoey steps to the right out of the way of a throng of men passing a large bottle back and forth between them. The smell of their unwashed bodies is powerful even in the open air and she turns her head away.
She’s beside a low building, its front open, hundreds of necklaces hanging from hooks driven into the lean-to’s ceiling. Shining stones adorn some of the necklaces while others are silver and dagger-like. A hunched man calls to the passersby, yelling something about good luck. His voice is one of hundreds, a babble of incoherence and chaos. Zoey touches the hard shape of the handgun in her pocket and peers out into the main area of the trade.
Hundreds of tents are situated on the far left side of the grounds in what she can only assume is the living space for the members of the trade. Beside them are dozens of vehicles of all makes. Most are battered trucks but she spots several cars and a few semis untethered to their trailers, which are parked out of the way near the closest fence. A few spires of taller tents rise above the many low buildings like the one she hides behind, and farther away is the two-story structure she spotted earlier along with the circular configuration of scaffolding. Many men are already standing at its very top, arms propped over the side, their attention toward the center of the circle. She searches for the shapes of the steel containers but her vantage is much lower than it was on the hill, and the layout seems to be different now that she’s here. She has to move closer.
Tentatively she steps behind the building and hobbles along the backs of two more just like it before coming to a wide and straight clearing in the grounds. Dozens of the little open-fronted structures line either side of the expanse, the busiest area she’s seen so far.
A man rides a one-wheeled bicycle down the center, tossing colorful balls into the air and catching them in a graceful motion.
A blast of flame erupts from another man’s mouth and she flinches as someone’s hat catches fire, an anthem of laughter ringing out amidst cries of fear.
A figure dressed completely in black pedals a boxy cart topped with gleaming pipes that emit the unnerving music she heard before. At the very far end of the lane the chain-link fence separates the trade from the wilderness and rising mountain beyond.
And at the entrance to it all a tall steel arch rises up into the night with letters ignited in electric lights.
MIDWAY.
Zoey searches for another route around the bustling area of the trade, but guards stand next to some of the little buildings, shoving back into the midway anyone that tries to circumvent the aisle.
She steadies herself, fear bubbling in her center. She starts to step out below the arch just as two men round the nearest building. Zoey ducks back as Merrill and Eli pass by, their steps even and unhurried. She watches them move up the rows of shops, the men inside hawking their wares as they pass. Unable to stand still any longer, she moves, walking along the opposite side of the midway as Merrill and Eli. She catches glimpses inside some of the stands.
Here there is the potent scent of alcohol, a line of men waiting to be served tall, dark bottles.
There a well-lit alcove emits a delicious smell that causes her stomach to jerk with hunger as a man pushes bags of roasted nuts across the pitted countertop.
To the right a large tent has the sign FREAKS scrawled across its front, a man no more than three feet tall waving a carved wooden stick and calling out to the crowd to step inside.
Farther along, the busiest stand sells faded magazines to a swarm of men, their covers indistinct but she catches the pale glow of nude flesh within the pages.
Zoey moves past them all, the cacophony and intermingling scents and colors coalescing until the air shakes with it. The tempest that is the trade thrums around her and she steps into a shadow beside the last stand, bracing herself on the rough wood. When she’s sure she can move again she hurries past a man spinning two swords around in dazzling flashes of steel and sidesteps a crowd gathering at the base of the circular structure. She spots an entrance that the men are filing through, two armed guards keeping the crowd moving. The rounded and open design of the structure triggers a memory that comes to her fully formed. In the NOA textbook she had seen something like it in the history section; ancient Greece or Rome, she isn’t sure which, had a similar building. A coliseum. That’s what it was called. Some type of arena where both plays and bloody combat took place as entertainment.
She shivers.
This is where men fight to the death for the right to own a woman. This is where Ken won Halie and took her away to be raped and tortured for months on end. Everything and everyone around her is a part of the monstrous machine.
She doesn’t realize she’s drawn her weapon until she feels the safety click off.
Zoey glances around, making sure no one has seen, and conceals the pistol again, rage simmering in her blood. It would do no good to lose composure now. She would only die because of it, or worse, become an attraction in this place.
As she’s about to move in the opposite direction her eyes snag on something partially hidden by the rounded structure’s bulk.
The front end of a shipping container.
She waits for a group of yammering men to pass, throwing looks in every direction before hurrying across the open space beside the coliseum to the shadow of a small, humming shack. The wood buzzes beneath her hands and she smells heavy exhaust. There must be large generators inside the building. She traces the thick electrical cords running out from her position through the base of the coliseum as well as to a set of tall lights that illuminate the immediate area. As she leans closer to the shack, she hears raised voices coming from the opposite side, one of which she recognizes instantly. She peeks around the corner.
Merrill and Eli are backing away from the closest container, their hands held up as a guard advances toward them, rifle pointed in their direction.
“Just trying to get a look,” Merrill says.
“You’ll get your chance when we bring her out. Now wait your fucking turn like everyone else,” the guard growls, snapping off the rifle’s safety.
“No need to ge
t jumpy, man. Our first time here,” Eli says.
“No one’s allowed in this area. Great way to get yourself killed. Now beat it!”
Merrill and Eli turn their backs on the guard, heading her way as Zoey ducks behind the shack.
Just as she’s weighing her options on where to move next, gunfire erupts nearby, the sound of the shots splitting the night and rising above all the other noise of the trade.
28
“What?” Wen says, sure her ears betrayed her.
“Join us,” Elliot says again, motioning to the empty chair across from him. “You’ve always been compliant, appreciative of the things we’ve given you. You test our food for contaminants at risk to your life. You deserve at least to partake in some of your own hard work.”
She lets out a slow breath, wondering if they can see her pulse through her shirt, see it beating at her temple like a base drum. She licks her lips. “I couldn’t. It’s not my place.”
“We’re inviting you.”
She jerks her eyes to Sasha, certain the woman will object as she has throughout the years whenever leniency or compassion has been shown. But she is silent, staring down at the plate in her lap.
“Please, sit with us. We have time. We’re not due for the commencement of events for another hour.” He gestures to the seat again and when she doesn’t move his face contorts. “Sit down, Sondra!”
Wen watches his expression change from furious to stricken in a second. Elliot fumbles with his fork, nearly dropping it to the floor. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know why I called you that.” The fork hovers over the pie, touches the crust before he draws it away. “Please. Sit.”
She feels herself glide toward the chair, not walking, unable to feel her feet.
Her mouth is full of dust, all the saliva from smelling the pie sapped by the knowledge that she will have to eat it. There is no other choice.
Wen sinks into the chair, reaching out with trembling fingers to take the plate Elliot hands her. “No need to be nervous, dear. There’s no reason we can’t be civil and enjoy a meal together, isn’t that right, darling?”
Sasha glances up from the dessert as if she’s waking from a dream. “Of course not.”
“Go ahead, dear,” Elliot urges.
Wen tries to swallow but her throat is locked shut. She slowly cuts a chunk of the warm pie with her fork. “I’m . . . I’m really not that hungry,” she says, staring at the dessert. “Setup always does a number on my stomach.”
“Come now, the way this smells I don’t know anyone that could turn it down.”
The room pulses around her, her vision going hazy at the edges as she lifts the fork up, bringing it close to her mouth. Robbie. What will he do without her? Could he still get out? And James. When she doesn’t show up at their meeting place, he’ll come looking. And when he knows their arrangement is off, he’ll tell the Prestons everything.
But really how much is her life worth when compared to ending the two people across from her? How many will she save in the aftermath?
Wen slides the fork and pie into her mouth and begins to chew.
Elliot smiles widely, bringing the first bite to his lips as Sasha cuts her dessert and does the same.
Gunshots ring out above the sound of the trade outside.
Wen’s jaws lock together, the pie filling crawling across her tongue.
“What was that?” Elliot says, letting the fork and the uneaten pie drop to his plate. He glances at Hemming, who is already moving across the room to the windows. “It sounded like gunfire.”
“One of the locals most likely,” Hemming says, staring outside. His voice is ragged and thick from disuse. It is only the second time Wen has ever heard him speak.
The pie in her mouth is dissolving into mush, gradually making its way to the back of her tongue. The urge to swallow is nearly unbearable.
Another gun blast, followed by two more. Now cries of alarm drown out the calliope music, drawing Elliot to his feet.
She has to swallow. She can’t take it anymore.
Wen shoots a glance at Sasha, who is looking at her, but then a high-pitched yell rises to a crescendo and the older woman’s eyes flit to the window.
Wen smoothly reaches up, pulling her shirt collar close to her mouth, and spits the gelatinous bite of pie onto her chest. She tries to clean every trace of it from her tongue and teeth but Sasha sets her plate down, giving her another look. Wen drops the collar of her shirt, praying the moisture from the pie won’t soak through.
“Something’s wrong,” Elliot says from beside Hemming. “There’s a disturbance on the west end of the coliseum. See the crowd there? Get someone to check it out.”
The taste of apples curls her tongue on itself and she’s sure then that she’s going to vomit. All the while she forces herself not to swallow the clotted spit and remains of pie that’s gathered in the space between her cheek and gums.
Hemming strides toward the door and opens it, murmuring something Wen can’t hear to the guard outside. Elliot returns to the table but doesn’t sit, while Sasha remains stoic in her chair.
“Always an inconvenience,” Elliot says. “But that’s show business for you. How is the pie, dear?”
“Delicious,” Wen manages between gritted teeth.
Elliot begins to respond, but at that moment a commotion from the stairway outside draws his attention away. There is a yelled curse then a grunt of pain from somewhere downstairs and a vague sense of disbelief washes over her.
Because she knows that voice.
Several seconds later three guards appear in the doorway, a thin man draped between them, legs limp, feet dragging as they carry him into the room, throwing him to the floor in a heap.
Slowly Robbie raises his head and looks at her.
A cut extends from his eyebrow to his temple, leaking blood, but there are also crimson droplets on the opposite side of his face as if he’s been sprayed with gore as well. Tears run from both his eyes, telling her everything she needs to know.
They’re both going to die.
“What’s this all about?” Elliot says, voice frigid.
One of the guards nudges Robbie hard with the toe of his boot. “Saw this piece of shit kissing a western gate guard and when I yelled at them this one’s lover tried to shoot me. But we got him first.” The guard grins and draws a pistol out of his coat, dangling it before him. “He’s on a scavenger team but had this on him, and they were smuggling supplies to a truck outside the fence. Looks like they were going to make a run for it.” He kicks Robbie again in the ribs, harder this time, and it’s all Wen can do not to leap from her seat and attack him. Robbie groans and blood drools from his mouth to the floor.
“Get him on his feet before he ruins the carpet!” Sasha yells.
They yank Robbie upright, but the guards have to support him because his legs keep unhinging. Wen blinks away the tears welling in her eyes as Robbie meets her gaze and shakes his head almost imperceptibly.
Elliot rounds the chairs and stops a pace from Robbie, looking him up and down. “So you have a touch of the lavender, do you, son?”
Robbie licks his bloodied lips. “Fuck you.”
Elliot frowns. “I understand. You and your friend thought you could steal from us and the rest of the troupe. Run off to be footloose and fancy free on the outside. Live in your sinful ways. It’s been tried before, my boy, and it’s always failed. No one takes from us who hasn’t earned it. Everyone has a place and a purpose in the show, and if one is greedy or unfit as yourself, it poisons the rest.”
Robbie sways in the guards’ grip and they steady him. “You’re a monster. Both of you,” he says, looking from Elliot to Sasha.
“Hmm, that’s ironic because that’s what I see before me now. A monster. A sinful, lying, stealing creature that I thought the world had mostly taken care of.” Elliot squints at Robbie for a moment before turning his head toward Wen. “My dear, am I mistaken, or doesn’t this man assist you in the ki
tchen when he’s not scavenging?”
She lets out a shaky breath. “Yes.”
“Did you know anything about this?”
She searches for a way out, eyes flashing to the windows, the door blockaded by guards, back to Robbie’s battered face, the pleading there. She knows what he wants and gives it to him, hating herself even as she does so.
“No. I had no idea he was planning this.” Her heart fractures a little at the gratitude that is there and gone in Robbie’s gaze. “He’s always been an excellent worker.” She can’t stand to look at him anymore so she addresses the guard behind him. “Are you sure he was trying to escape? Maybe you’re mistaken about what you saw.”
The guard sneers. “I have two fucking eyes just like you. I can tell if one guy’s kissing another. Damn queer.” He shakes Robbie whose head jostles from side to side.
“Yes, well. This is most unfortunate,” Elliot says. “To mar opening night this way is definitely a sign of bad luck. But the show must go on, no matter what hiccups arise.”
Robbie purses his lips and, before Elliot can react, spits a mouthful of bloody saliva into his face.
Elliot’s arm swings up, the derringer pistol snapping into his hand. He lunges forward, pressing the barrel hard into Robbie’s forehead, a maniacal grimace tearing his face in two. “You piece of filth! I should end you right now,” the old man growls, pushing the gun hard enough into Robbie’s skin that Wen sees fresh blood pool around the steel. Elliot breathes hard, shoulders heaving, and she knows any second she’ll hear the gunshot, see Robbie, her only true friend in the world, crumple lifelessly to the ground, and then it will all be over. She will try to kill both of the Prestons with her bare hands, and she will die alongside her friend.
