Carniepunk

by Rachel Caine

  We don’t have to be told twice.

  A few steps from the hole vomiting up coal smoke, Neuter pulls a mask over his face before helping Gretta with hers, then me with mine. The descent into the subway is surely a disastrous idea, but what choice did they have? Maybe the oxygen will help calm me; that’s what it’s supposed to do, right? Flood your brain, make you euphoric so you don’t mind the fact that you’re roasting like a pig in a giant tubular oven?

  Keep you alive.

  The whole process would have been a shit ton easier if someone had survived the zombies who knew one thing about the trains. Hooking up coal locomotives has caused a whole new set of problems.

  The elastic straps pinch the tips of my ears, and the goggles steam up almost immediately, but when the nozzle turns and the oxygen storms in, cool and clean, I feel an unfamiliar surge of optimism. This might just work.

  Neuter ties a thin loop of rope around his waist and then ours, linking us. I look into the gaping hole of the stairwell, vomiting black smoke like a chimney stack.

  “It’s now or never!” Neuter shouts, and disappears into the dark cloud. The rope tied around Gretta’s waist snaps tight, and she stumbles forward.

  The only thing stopping me from tumbling down the stairs and breaking a hip is my white-knuckle grip on a railing so loose, it clings to the wall by no more than a thick coat of grease. So, not much. It certainly isn’t my quaking knees. The way I figure it, there’s plenty of residual fear left in these tunnels, smoke aside. We’ve all heard stories about the subway and what happened down here during the initial outbreak. No need to rehash it.

  The lamp on my head does very little to cut through the black cloud, but I can occasionally see Gretta’s muumuu and the hint of her body struggling forward into the grim depths. There is a clattering waller that seems to accompany each new mass of smoke, a grating, jarring scrape of a sound so pervasive that it shakes the very air.

  “This way!” Neuter screams. “Don’t lag, the train’s here!”

  I’m jostled forward by the rope at my waist. My feet shuffle over the oily cement until the space opens up around us, like we’ve entered some great cavern. The thick haze clings to the ceiling here a bit, and I’m able to make out Gretta and Neuter and just the impression of a subway car a few steps away.

  We’ve stumbled into a charcoal sketch, but it’s all dark-shaded black. We’ve lost our edges. Our definition. Despite the mask, the sooty air creeps in and crystallizes on my eyelids, each blink scraping painfully.

  “Almost there!” Neuter shouts over the din, and the rope tugs at my waist.

  Several yards past the base of the stair, a blue light breaks through the gray haze and a figure materializes.

  The conductor wears a full hazmat suit, neon glowing around his face like the undercarriage of a street racer. “All aboard,” he yells, but when I take a step toward the open door of the train, he snatches my arm.

  “Where do you think you’re going, missy?”

  I sneer. His hand lingers on the girth of my bicep and his expression changes. He turns toward Gretta, who’s holding her belly immaculately—or maybe it’s merely the halo of light reflecting off the cheap plastic flesh.

  “Did you pay me? I’m pretty sure I haven’t received payment.”

  “But you said—”

  “I was using the term ironically. By ‘All aboard,’ I meant ‘Pay up, bitch.’ ”

  Neuter sweeps in between us, already digging into his backpack. “Nuh-no see,” he stutters. “I got our fare, right here.”

  The conductor tries to get a peek into the bag, his finger stretching toward the open zipper. Neuter rankles and pivots away.

  “Un-unh.” He turns back with a paper sack and drops it into the man’s gloved palm. “Enough to get us to Coney.”

  He seems to weigh it, his hand raising and lowering it, and then decides whatever it is is sufficient and tosses it into the darkness.

  “Well, then!” he shouts, suddenly perky. “Why didn’t we do that right away, instead of getting so snotty?”

  My mouth drops open. Did he seriously?

  But I don’t have time to argue before he starts yammering again. “All aboard! And I mean it this time.” He leans in close. Too close. “The ride to Coney Island isn’t a short one. And it’s been a long time since I’ve met such a sturdy lady; you’re just my type.”

  “I doubt that,” I say, rolling my eyes, and rush into the car before the conductor can launch into any more of his revolting courtship maneuvers. The last thing I need is to figure out that he is turned on by what I’m so desperately trying to get rid of. I’m pretty sure I didn’t misread the intent of the word sturdy.

  I take the closest seat and Gretta crowds in next to me, while Neuter takes up opposite, coiling the slack rope onto the floor at his feet. The conductor peeks in, winks, and then stabs a thumb in the direction of the front of the train.

  “Just gotta check on the rest of the passengers.” He gives me another wink and then disappears.

  “He’s into you,” Gretta says, elbowing my arm.

  “That’s what I’m worried about.”

  And I already have enough to worry about, I think. Tracking down the Zed is the least of it. There seems to be something sinister in the world that wasn’t there just hours ago. Something spreading.

  What exactly are living people doing eating the dead? Why are there so many of them? And what is that sound in the distance?

  Slap-slap-slap.

  “Christ!” I scream.

  “Shut the door!” Gretta is on her feet and flanking me even as the footfalls get louder. The carrion stampede down the stairs. I lean out of the car and see a hint of blue light ahead.

  “Conductor! Conductor!”

  Slap-slap-slap.

  The lights bounce as he shrugs and he continues to inch toward the smoking coal locomotive attached to the front of the train. He doesn’t hear me. I struggle with the knotted rope around my waist.

  “Get this door shut, Gretta,” I beg as the knot frees. “You know what they’ll be after if they make it down here before we get moving!”

  “What about you?”

  “They’re not coming for me.” I point at her gut and she grits her teeth. The realization settles on her like a weight.

  I sprint after the conductor, crouching as low as I can to see beneath the smoke, whipping around the concrete columns, passing one empty car after the next until I can see the man’s blue aura and something else in the car next to me.

  Movement.

  Lots of it. Shambling death bumbles behind the glass, some of them looking over at me hungrily, black tongues lapping between loose rotten teeth. And coming down the stairs, a shit ton of two-legged vultures, stumbling and coughing. Coughing.

  The smoke is probably slowing them down, I think. But it won’t stop them. They’re crazy. They can somehow smell the dead down here.

  Hell. I can smell the dead.

  “What the hell, Conductor!”

  He shrugs. “What? It’s a shipment for the Geek.”

  I don’t even want to know what this means. “We have to go!” I shout. “Don’t you hear that?”

  His eyes dart toward the stairs, where the dark haze seems to vibrate. In the distance feet appear, and then faces. The carrion aren’t so crazy that they don’t stop, drop, and crawl beneath the toxic cloud to get to their dead meat. They scrabble forward, purple smears black in the dim light.

  Gagging and coughing.

  The conductor’s face freezes, shock pushing every orifice wide. I claw at him, scream for him to move, and then we’re running, too, into the open engine car. He slams his palm against a lever and suddenly, thankfully, we’re moving.

  But it’s too slow.

  The carrion are already attacking the zombie car, desperate for their food. They jack tiles from the station walls and stab at the glass. Toss garbage can covers and benches. Windows shatter, and the dead seem to explode outward along with the s
hards.

  “Faster!” I scream.

  And the train does pick up some speed, but as I lean out to watch the melee unfold, I wonder if it’s going to be enough. The carrion and the zombies that aren’t clinging to the sides of the subway car are locked in a culinary embrace, feeding on each other. Human on the dead, zombie on living flesh.

  Blood and bile surge forward across the station floor in a wave and I can’t hold back any longer. I lean out, lift up my mask, and vomit as the scene behind us falls into darkness.

  —

  I WAKE ON the floor of the engine, the sounds of shovel stabbing coal reminding me of where I am. Where I’m headed and what we’ve somehow managed to survive.

  I wonder about Gretta Graves and Neuter.

  Had they been able to get their door shut? If they hadn’t, Gretta’s special package certainly didn’t make it. But would that have been enough for such a horde? Would they have killed just to have more dead flesh later? Are some of them smart like that? Like packing a lunch?

  “Why you headed to the carnival?” The conductor’s deep voice shakes me out of the dwelling.

  “We’re looking for something.”

  “Only one thing to find at Coney and that’s the Geek. You jonesing for the Jimmy?” He steps up close to me and slides down the wall until we’re real close. “Or is it something else?”

  “What do you know about Zed?” I ask.

  He winces. “I know it ain’t natural. Somethin’ the Geek cooked up wrong and took off like new sugar. Tell me a tough chick like you ain’t gonna get mixed up with nothin’ like that.”

  “I have to. I don’t have a choice.”

  And I didn’t, did I? Whether I took it on my own or as a result of delivering a batch to Dr. Bloom, I was looking at getting mixed up in some Zed.

  “Well.” The conductor pats me on my leg and stands up. I notice that I can see him more clearly, and it isn’t because his helmet light has gotten brighter.

  Daylight filters through the greasy glass as the subway train rises from the depths of the tunnel. We’re close. I slip off the oxygen mask and gulp at the fresh air. Craning my neck out the side window, I half expect to see an ongoing struggle, but the car that holds the zombies is quiet.

  Shredded clothing and gore flap against the sides of broken windows like tattered curtains. The battle has burned itself out, or rather eaten itself still.

  The tracks bank slightly, and the full crescent of the collection of cars becomes visible. My eyes scan each for signs of life and then, four cars back, I find some. Gretta and Neuter waving.

  As we approach the station, the conductor touches me on the shoulder.

  “You know that old saying, ‘The darker the berry . . . ’?”

  I shake my head no.

  “ ‘The darker the berry, the sweeter the juice.’ That’s how it goes. But that ain’t true. There’s nothin’ sweet anymore. You remember that.” He withdraws his hand and eases the train to a stop.

  I suppose he’s right. There isn’t a whole lot of sweet to go around.

  And all I can think about at the mention of berries are the stains on the carrion’s faces. Purple as blackberry jam.

  “Jade!” Gretta’s big heels clop across the platform toward me. Her smile fades as she passes the zombie car but she doesn’t stop to inspect it. Nothing springs out, so that’s some luck.

  “You managed to keep that baby, I see.”

  “Yep. Ain’t that somethin’? I’d have thought for sure a night like what we just went through would have set off my labor quicker than a shot of Pitocin, but nope. She’s hangin’ in there. Don’t want to be born just yet and that’s just fine with me.” She rubs at the curvature, secures the bandanna into the gnawed hole, and smiles again.

  To that, all I can say is, “Just remember your promise.”

  —

  CONEY ISLAND USED to be a shambles on a good day, but post–zombie apocalypse it turned into an actual garbage dump. Trash drifts dwarf the already short buildings, turning them into mountains of junk. To get from the elevated train platform to the street level, we climb down, carefully avoiding the hypodermic needles and skinny rats.

  But it’s the larger vermin moving in the distance that I’m worried about. Carrion wander the streets. A few people without the purple stains, too, but they’re much less frequent. We have to move quickly and quietly.

  As if it’s heard my thoughts, the dead thing in Gretta’s gut scrabbles against the plastic shell.

  “Shut it up, Gretta,” I hiss.

  She pouts, rubbing her belly. “We’re fine. Just fine . . .”

  We tumble into the shadows between buildings and wait, observing the carrion. They stagger to and fro, stumble, and half of them wallow in the refuse like they can’t figure out how their appendages work. Something’s different about these, disorganized to the point of being slovenly and not the predators the others are. But we can’t risk them noticing. Even if they are high or completely stoned out of their minds.

  “This place is magical,” Gretta quips, holding her stomach as she crabwalks down toward where Nathan’s used to sit, now just another pile of rotting waste and enough of it to provide some cover.

  “So where is this guy?” I ask. “The Geek.”

  Neuter juts his chin toward the water and we follow. The boardwalk is impassable; chopped into shards and used for firewood, it’s a valley of splinters and spears. So we cut along the empty street side, diving into alcoves and busted storefronts as we need to, until we arrive at the carnival.

  Clouds roll in and cast a dark shadow over the crumbling amusement park. The rides are rusted and still, the cotton candy kiosks empty, unmanned. Rotting husks of stuffed animals decorate the empty game booths, termites and roaches having turned them into prime real estate.

  In the past, this kind of place would have been crawling with homeless people. That particular social issue had been completely eradicated by the undead’s appearance.

  A sharp grinding noise draws my attention to the Wonder Wheel. Strung with lights, it rotates slowly.

  “There,” Neuter says. “That’s where we’ll find him.”

  We crouch in the darkness as more of the stained freaks pass. Up close, they appear asleep, purple tongues thrusting from their mouths like those of overmedicated mental patients. Their faces aren’t nearly as stained, but those tongues are unreal.

  Amethyst.

  I glance at Gretta, a.k.a. the target on our back. If these carrion snap to and get the munchies, I just know I’ll trip her to create a diversion.

  Neuter is right, though, and we hear the Geek before we see him. His voice is mechanized, as though he’s speaking through a megaphone.

  “Rest easy, friends. The conductor will be here soon. Restocking the lake! You’ll have your fill and these will come to you! Right to you.”

  I creep up to a junction and cast my eyes up a glowing gallery lined with torches and strewn with dozing carrion up toward a Roman-esque scene of debauchery. Bodies curled around each other, lazing in their purpled stupors like a new litter of puppies—if puppies ate the flesh of the dead and somehow weren’t cute. Some writhe and clutch their guts and even those of their neighbors as if in sympathy. Beyond them sits a raised dais and atop that a man . . . or what looks like a man, from this distance. He’s dark as an oil slick.

  “Friends, friends—rest easy!” he shouts, and taps a megaphone-topped scepter like a gavel against the grit under his feet. “We have visitors.”

  My breath hitches in my chest. He’s spotted us, which shouldn’t surprise me—at six foot six in these heels, I’m not exactly inconspicuous. But it does.

  The Geek himself sits on a throne that sparkles like a cell phone kiosk, and as I approach I realize, instead of the bones of his enemies, the man has embedded his chair with those memories of a more connected time. That he’s chosen the most blinged-out cases makes me think we might have something in common—until I get a good look at the Geek up close.
He wears a black leather hood, and as he watches us approach, he unzips the mouth to reveal his jagged smile and metal teeth.

  “Hello!” he shouts pleasantly. “Welcome!”

  I push ahead of Gretta and Neuter and advance. “Hello . . . Mr. Geek, is it?”

  “You may call me the Geek. There’s no need to get caught up in gender trappings, is there?” He nods as though we have an understanding.

  “I suppose.”

  “Now, how may I help you? A sample, perhaps?”

  “Zed,” I say.

  “Zed!” he laughs.

  A rustle of interest sweeps across his entourage, an unconscious lavender lip-licking that sets my nerves on edge.

  “Of course. It’s all anyone asks for now.” The Geek stands, slips his hand around the crook of my elbow. “Walk with me.”

  We move closer to the Wonder Wheel, to a stand set up with levers and buttons, and the Geek presses one, causing the giant Ferris wheel to shudder and rotate. From this angle I notice there are bars on the window, and as each car passes I see that it carries a load of passengers, mostly dead and thudding their heads against their prison, others drooling purple juice.

  “Don’t mind them, they’re in process.” He shrugs.

  “Process of what?” I ask, but I remember Annick’s description.

  A transformative agent.

  “They are changing. Becoming something different. Who knows what, eventually? Aren’t we all becoming something that we’re not yet?”

  I nod, but without enthusiasm, with the beginnings of fear.

  “You yourself appear to understand this more than most.” The Geek smiles broadly, shiny teeth grinding. He runs a pink tongue across his likewise flesh-toned lips, his silver teeth glinting.

  “You’re unstained.” The words pop out before I can evaluate whether it’s wise to note the difference.

  He continues to smile. “Transformation is not my end goal. My medicinal need is for something . . . different. My friends, on the other hand, are freshly dosed and eventually will head off on their own journeys. God bless their souls. It’s a wonderful age we live in, full of new possibilities. ‘Momentous’ is the word—don’t you think?”

  With a flick of a lever the Wonder Wheel stops its noisy rotation and a dark car sits before us. I am coaxed toward it by the elbow of mine he holds, and when I look back over my shoulder, I’m terrified by the scene playing out behind me. While the Geek has been distracting me, Gretta has been quietly tied to a telephone pole, while Neuter lies in a crumpled heap. A pair of carrion sniff at Gretta’s belly, tug at the bandanna, rap at the prosthetic, and listen—all while the big tranny just smiles and nods as if she’s witnessing some tribal custom.