More Bedtime Stories for the Apocalypse

by Joel Arnold

  Brenda only now started to feel the pain of the cut on her shoulder, but she lifted the plastic lid and brought it down on top of the killer’s head. Once. Twice. Three times a lady, she thought, the third swing connecting with his nose, sending blood spraying. The killer fell onto his side and weakly held up a hand in surrender.

  Brenda swung at his hand and felt the give of his breaking fingers.

  She held the seat above her for another swing, breathing hard.

  A woman called out from beyond her range of vision. “Hey!”

  Brenda looked up. Oh dear sweet Jesus, thank you, thank you, thank you. It was the redheaded woman.

  “A phone,” Brenda gasped. “Do you have a phone?”

  “Yes. Yes, back at my campsite. What’s going on?”

  “This – this man – attacked me. Tried to kill me. Please, call the police. An ambulance.”

  “Yes. God. Okay. Come with me.”

  “But – ” Brenda indicated the man lying on the ground at her feet. He was still breathing.

  “He doesn’t look like he’s in any shape to do much harm now,” the woman said. “Come on. It’ll be okay. Besides – ” She bent down and picked up the killer’s knife. “We have this. You want it?”

  She wanted nothing to do with it. How many others had it killed? “God, no,” Brenda said.

  The redhead smiled slightly. “You look like you can handle a toilet seat with the best of them.”

  “Yes,” Brenda breathed. “I’m a goddamn warrior princess.” She noticed that the lighter fluid had burned itself out.

  The redhead put an arm around Brenda’s shoulders. “Come on. The campsite’s not far.”

  Brenda shuddered with relief. She slumped against the redhead’s side.

  The sound of something scraping on gravel behind them made her spin around. The killer slowly rose to his knees. “Celia,” he groaned.

  Celia?

  She was about to run and grab the toilet seat again – her weapon of choice – but she felt a sharp pain in her back.

  What –

  She looked down and saw the tip of the killer’s hunting knife poking out between her breasts. She dropped to her knees and turned her head too look at the redhead looming above her.

  The redhead’s eyes were on the kneeling maniac. She spoke to him over Brenda’s head. “You were damn lucky honey. This one almost got away.”

  Brenda fell onto her stomach. The outhouse had stopped burning. Only the bottom of it had been warped from the fire. Shoulda stayed inside, she thought, as the killer slowly got to his feet. Shoulda stayed inside. The two killers embraced over her as she lost consciousness.

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  Black Bags

  "Cliff. Look at me. Cliff?"

  He looked at her. Fear crept into the corners of his eyes.

  Clara shook her head. "Never mind." She grabbed her camera and left him sitting there, a frail thing of skin and bones, as she walked briskly to the carnival's entrance. She didn't look back when the engine revved and sputtered, the crunch of gravel like joints popping as he pulled away.

  Aperture.

  Shutter speed.

  Hold very still, and soft as a plume of smoke, press - the -

  Click.

  The film automatically advanced. She let the camera settle against her chest and looked for another good shot. Close to two hours had gone by, and by her watch she had another twenty minutes left.

  There. At the end of the midway. The Ferris wheel. Turning slowly clockwise, the dying sun glinting off each car as it reached its zenith. How high was that? Bet you can see the whole carnival from up there laid out like a colorful game board.

  She shouldered her camera. Clifford gave it to her for her retirement three years earlier. A Nikon 35mm automatic - a bit more complicated than the old Six-20 Brownie she used to own. She had wanted a digital; everything was digital now. And finding film – actual film – was such a headache. No more just going down to the local drugstore. Now you had to go to a dedicated photography store to find the stuff.

  She’d wanted a digital camera, had hinted to Clifford a number of times about how digital was so much easier nowadays – so much cheaper. But he’d bought her this. It was a nice camera, sure, but…

  He’d been afraid to buy her a digital. Afraid of switching over. He didn’t want anything to do with her laptop, didn’t even want a damn cordless phone, let alone a cell-phone. “How can you trust a phone without a cord?” he’d reasoned to her. “A cord is trustworthy. Signals – just plain old signals floating through the air? Now that’s not something you can rely on in a pinch.”

  But…well, hell. At least her camera, as much of a dinosaur as it was, was at least a good excuse to get out in the fresh air.

  Clifford, what am I going to do with you?

  It was so hard to get him out of the house these days, away from his baseball games and his Wheel of Fortune. Wasn't retirement supposed to be a chance to spend more time together? But as she took community ed classes, bowled with the Silver Eagle Seniors, and took short road trips with her camera and audio books, Clifford spent his days comatose in front of the TV or buried in true crime books.

  Clara wandered slowly toward the Ferris wheel. So many young people. Shrieks of laughter. The smell of fried dough, of fresh hay, of kabobs grilling over open flames, and the carney's constant patter like hail on a tin roof.

  "Comin' through. Comin' through."

  A wire thin man with wrap around sunglasses and a week's worth of sharp gray beard rushed past her, pushing a silver cart full of black garbage bags. Clara took a quick step back. He wasn't stopping for anybody.

  The cart hurtled over a nest of winding electrical cables. The bags jiggled, as if full of something thick and heavy. A group of young boys jumped out of the way.

  "Comin' through. Comin' through." He disappeared between the Dart Dare and the Booth of Bullets.

  A shiver raced through Clara. She pointed her camera at the group of boys, let the camera automatically focus on one boy's frowning acne-scarred face.

  Steady, and -

  A hand grabbed her shoulder. She jerked forward.

  "Didn't mean to startle you, but I was wondering if I could take a moment of your time." A tall man in an orange blazer stood before her. He wore a blue nametag and a toupee that looked like the fur ripped off of a dog's ass. "Frank Green," he said around a shit-eating grin. "I promise, I only ask for a moment."

  Clara caught her breath. She sighed. "All right. What are you selling?"

  He shifted a lemon drop in his mouth. "Getting right to the point. I like that." He turned a clipboard toward her. Attached was a colorful brochure. His fingers sat poised on it like the appendages of a Daddy Long Legs. "What I'm selling is modern science, pure and simple. What I'm selling is a guarantee. My superiors have created a method, as explained here in detail, which will add years to your life, guaranteed. How do we guarantee something – "

  Clara pushed the clipboard away. "Enough! I came here to enjoy the fair, not listen to someone selling sugar pills." Before he could get another word out, she turned and brusquely walked away.

  Aperture -

  Shutter speed -

  Click.

  The Ferris wheel.

  Clara counted fourteen gondolas, each a bright candy-like color connected to a framework riddled with light bulbs, all revolving around a giant axis. It was hypnotic. Hard not to get lost in the intricacies of color and the snowflake-like frame.

  She turned to her right, wanting to share her joy, but of course, Cliff wasn't there. Was this the way it was going to be? She didn't want to live life alone. She wanted to go places, see things other than what was on TV.

  But not alone. Not alone.

  Damn it.

  The Ferris wheel beckoned. Three dollars for tickets.

  Clara remembered when she could spend an entire day at the fair stuffing herself to the gills with candy and food, and ride all she want
ed to for less than three dollars.

  "Comin' through. Comin' through."

  She turned in time to see the same wire-thin, gray-bearded man plow through the crowd with another cart full of black garbage bags. A thick stream of liquid spilled from the cart, leaving a dark, wet trail in the dust.

  The bags jiggled as the cart sideswiped a sno-cone booth.

  "Ma'am?" There was a tap on her shoulder. She turned.

  "Tickets?" A tan face under a cowboy hat grinned at her.

  "Oh." She gave him the tickets. A gondola awaited her. Cowboy helped her into it and motioned to the next person in line. She tapped him on the back. "Mind if I ride alone?"

  Cowboy doffed his hat. "No problem." He slammed the door shut. "Have a nice ride."

  The gondola swung up into the air. Clara grabbed the sides as it rocked, the bolts and joints of the ride creaking like Clifford’s knees. It came to a brief halt as a group of four teenagers full of tattoos and pierced everything got in the next car. Another upsweep, more groans and squeaks, and the ride was in motion. Rock music blared from loudspeakers. The music wavered from soft to loud to soft as the wheel turned. The odor of something burning far away tickled her nostrils. Something acrid, like burning tires. She wrinkled her nose.

  As the gondola reached its zenith, the entire carnival spread out before her; so many people milling about, the colorful rides, zigging, zagging, twirling like the workings of an intricate clock. Screams and laughter drifted up over the music in a communal waver.

  She saw the parking lot where Clifford dropped her off. She saw the tops of the booths, the concession stands, the games, all of them a muddy gray behind the colorful facades.

  A down-sweep. The people, the stands came up to greet her. She swept past the cowboy who gave her a nod, a wink, a grin.

  Then up again. Down and around and up, the carnival an undulating entity beneath her. There was a point at the very top when the upsweep met the down sweep. The resistance of gravity met gravity's welcome embrace. It was a fleeting sensation, one felt in the brief weightlessness of blood and bones and skin.

  As the gondola peaked again, there was a screech of gears and a shower of sparks from below. The ride jolted to an abrupt stop. If it wasn't for the strap around Clara's neck, her camera would've dropped sixty feet and smashed into the Ferris wheel's metal pilings below.

  She swallowed. Looked over the edge of the gondola at Cowboy. His hands worked fast inside a control box, his hat hung off the back of his neck, his sunglasses pushed up on his forehead.

  Stuck. She supposed if she had to be stuck, there were worse places than this. She'd once been stuck in an elevator full of businessmen for thirty-five minutes; now that had been something. She’d never forget that nauseating mixture of body odor and aftershave.

  She surveyed the grounds. Amidst the carnival goers shuffling from games to rides to food booths, she saw the man with the cart again. She trained her camera on him, zooming in as he moved quickly from one side of the midway to the other, with little regard for those in his way. Clara noticed a tattoo on the back of his head that disappeared below his neckline. It undulated and pulsed with the man's movement, as his neck muscles tensed with each step.

  What was it that leaked from his cart? It left a thin black trail in the dust, quickly obscured by shadows and hundreds of trampling feet. Clara followed the trail as best she could back to the booths from which the man had come. Behind the booths, the trail darkened.

  She settled back on the uncomfortable fiberglass seat of the gondola, her camera still roaming over the trail the cart pusher had left behind. Something bright orange flashed into view. She zoomed out, allowing for a broader view.

  Frank Green. The man with his clipboard of guarantees. His arm snaked around the shoulders of an old man in plaid shorts. The old man took short, careful steps.

  No. No, no, no…

  The thought of that snake oil salesman talking that poor man out of his money…

  Clara focused her camera and snapped a picture. Snapped another as they entered a sky blue trailer with white clouds painted on the front. Took a close-up of Mr. Green looking out toward the booths as the trailer swallowed the old man.

  Disgusting. Clara sat back and looked up at the sky. At least the breeze felt good up here. Yet she couldn't get that man, that Frank Green off her mind. They shouldn’t allow hucksters like that in a place where families came to have fun.

  There was yelling in the gondola just below hers; the one full of teenage pincushions. The two girls stood and rocked their gondola back and forth as the boys pleaded with them to stop. Now there's a switch, Clara thought.

  She aimed her camera at Cowboy and zoomed in. He swore at the control box, hitting it with a screwdriver.

  Great. It was going to be awhile. She was glad she used one of the Port-O-Potties not long ago.

  Hope Clifford isn't sitting there waiting for me, getting all worried. He should be here with me now. We'd have a good laugh about all of this. Together.

  The last rays of the sun spread over the carnival. Tentacles of gold. Clara turned back to the sky blue trailer just in time to see Mr. Green's orange blazer follow an elderly couple past the painted clouds. Why oh why do they falling for that spiel? Green came outside and walked quickly back to the midway. Clara watched his eyes through the telephoto lens and noted the moment his eyes locked onto someone. Yes, there he goes.

  Another elderly couple. Showing them his clipboard. The woman shook her head. Good for you! But her husband - no! Clara could imagine what he was saying. "Let's just go see what he has to say, dear. We don't have to actually buy anything."

  The sucker's motto.

  And there they go, Frank Green with his arm around the man's shoulders like a python, the wife frowning, following close behind. Surely this must be illegal. Disappearing into the trailer between the Rastafarian Ring Toss and the Easy Winnin's Basketball Throw.

  "Comin' through, comin' through!"

  His voice rose over the din. He rushed past the elderly couple and Mr. Green. They jumped back against the ring toss. Clara followed the cart man with her camera. Zoomed in on the bags. With the sun all but gone, they were cloaked in shadow, save for the multi-colored flashes of light thrown on them by the midway rides.

  The light sparkling on the black bags made them appear to shift within the cart. Made them -

  What was that?

  She followed the swift motion of the cart as best as she could, focusing on a bag in the corner of the cart, and there was - there was –

  A face pressed against the plastic, the mouth open in a frozen scream, the bag sculpting tightly to the lips trying to fill the mouth.

  No, that couldn't -

  The cart stopped moving. Stopped before disappearing between the booths on the other side. Clara lowered her camera. The man who'd been pushing the cart stood there now, looking up at the Ferris wheel.

  Clara lifted the camera to her eye and zoomed in on him. Her heart clawed its way up her throat.

  He's looking at me.

  Looking right at me. Smiling. He's –

  He pointed at her.

  His smile widened. He turned his hand over, palm up, and curled his index finger in. Straightened it. Curled it in again. Come here.

  Clara let the camera drop to her chest. She pushed herself back to the opposite side of the gondola. The car swung. She closed her eyes, willing her heart to slow.

  I didn't see that. I did not see that.

  She slowly slid back to the other side and forced herself to look. The cart man was no longer there. She looked beyond the booths. More trailers.

  There. Outside of one of the trailers sat an empty cart. The trailer's shell was painted black. Bright orange and red flames surrounded the door. The trailer shook violently on its footings.

  Clara's hands squeezed the gondola's edges so tight that it was hard to pull them away. She had to get off.

  She looked down at Cowboy.

  And he look
ed back at her. He talked into a cell phone, his eyes locked on her.

  Clara sat back. Stared absently at the bench opposite her.

  What's gotten into you? It's just a trick of the lights.

  But the cart guy -

  So? Probably just fooling around. Thought it'd be fun to give an old lady a heart attack. And maybe Cowboy is concerned is all. Maybe he's on the phone right now with his superiors telling them an old lady is trapped up top.

  That's all. That's all he's doing.

  But she had to look. Just look. Once more.

  She forced herself to look back down. Cowboy was back at the control box. She looked at the black trailer with the flames encircling the door. It sat still and quiet. She scanned the midway for the man with the cart. He was nowhere to be found.

  And then she saw Clifford shuffling slowly down the length of the midway.

  Clara leaned out of the gondola, waved and yelled. "Clifford, up here!"

  But he was too far away to hear her over the racket of midway rides, rock and roll, and the patter of carnies.

  Damn it, can't they fix this thing?

  She peered down at the group of teenagers. They passed a cigarette back and forth between them. An empty vodka bottle lay at their feet. She turned her attention back to the midway and tried to relocate Clifford in the crowd.

  She spotted him. A man in an orange blazer had his arm around his shoulders, a clipboard held in front of him. Frank Green.

  Clara watched. Brought the camera up to her face. Zoomed in.

  Tell him you're not interested. Tell him you don't have time for this. Tell him you're looking for your wife. Clifford. Clifford?

  Clifford nodded at the brochure.

  No, Cliff!

  He had that look in his eyes, the same look he had when he signed them up for a timeshare in Miami. How many times had they gone?