The Deadsong (15 page)

“You ready?”

Gina said she was and got out of the car.

The sun had begun to set behind the Ferris wheel and the bright neon fixed to its frame and carriages came to life. The Zipper flipped and turned, screams of fear and of joy resounded throughout the midway. The shooting gallery was absent this year––a long counter with a row of water pistols mounted across it stood in its place. The carnie behind the counter chanted “Drown the clown, win a prize, everyone’s a winner, shoot water in the clown’s mouth and when the little hot air balloon hits the top, you win big, big, big. How about you, sir? Win a pink ape for your lady friend. How about it, sir? Three dollars, sir. Step right up, right this way, have a seat right there…”

Her senses were alive and gears were spinning to the max.
Confront him now, Gina. Do it now. Don’t waste anymore time. Others will die.

She battled with this incessantly. She ignored the fact that last night, an army of snakes had broken up the drunken crowd at the McGraws’ house and had sent Duke to Durden Memorial. But last Gina heard, he was still alive.

She had become completely infatuated with Jared, much like her mother with Mr. Thade, who hadn’t made an appearance since the football game. He was involved, too.

And Gina would figure out how.

2

Dylan strolled out of the Hemming Theatre with his tie undone. He mashed a pair of earbuds in his ears and hopped into his Geo and sputtered out to the county fair.

He opened his collar and bought a ticket, strutting as he went, his dark green vest flapping in the cool air. Hundreds upon hundreds of people were here. Some were hanging round by the stadium where the tractor-pull was going on. One angry tractor split into a deafening scream until the weight it carried allowed it to go no further, and then it died away into a glorious cheer from the crowd up in the stands. Dylan wandered through the thick veins of people thickening in the narrow pathways between the food trolleys and merchandise tables. A young girl with a pink bow in her hair bumped into him and began to cry because Dylan upset her newly won goldfish lazily swimming around a twist-tied baggie filled with water. He saw most of the people from the high school. They had formed their usual cliques, moving along, quacking about things that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. The tempting aromas all around him threatened to reel him in for a five dollar funnel cake, but he made it through onto the midway and disappeared into a sea of lost souls.

He found Garrett by the Tilt-a-Whirl schmoozing Suzie Grafton, but he abandoned her once his gaze caught Dylan’s.

“Dude, last night, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing! I thought it was the whiskey and all, but hot damn, those snakes!”

“Yeah, yeah, Garrett, I saw it, too.” Dylan had tried very hard to push that scene away, let it be forgotten like a bad dream.

“Everyone’s talking about it, Stark, and I mean everyone. But Duke’s all right, they said. Getting out tomorrow, I heard. No one’s ever survived an attack like that before.”

Dylan had discussed this with Gina once they’d gotten home. Duke should have some sort of supernatural immunity if he was of the Pearson bloodline. And he had sent the snakes away as if they had suddenly become afraid of him. He wanted to get in touch with Alan Blair. He would have probably heard about it by now. In a small town, this could spread like wildfire.

“The Hemming Herald showed up after we left the McGraws’. The Sheriff’s Department, too.”

Garrett began to walk as he babbled. Dylan followed, a little queasy, not really wanting to discuss the matter any further. They passed a couple of deputies with their thumbs locked behind their utility belts. One with a pencil-thin mustache was watching the pretty lights whirling around above his head––the Twister’s huge mechanical arms swinging its frenzied passengers around like ragdolls.

Ned Robertson made sure to have several deputies patrol the fair because it fell during the reaping season, but this was the first year to also have animal control specialists on hand in case snakes came for the party. Alan Blair was here, too, talking to a man with a ponytail carrying a large bag and a metal rod in his hands. The man’s T-shirt said “Critter Catchers.” Over this, he wore a black leather vest with
NO POLICE STATE
written in white across the back.

“Hey there, Dylan,” Alan said.

Dylan said hello and introduced him to Garrett. The man with the critter-catching gear wandered off behind the funhouse.

Alan admired the scene and said “This town is something else.”

Garrett shoved his hands in his pockets and threw back his head. “Me and Stark here want to help you guys out.”

“I appreciate that, but it’s really much too dangerous. That’s why I called in the professionals.”

Dylan saw the man with the ponytail reappear between Drown the Clown and the Zipper, raking through the growth with his metal rod. “Doesn’t look very professional to me.”

“It’s the best we could do on short notice. Where’s your sister?”

“She’s suppose to be here with…her boyfriend.”

Alan straightened. “The one who she says is––”

Dylan nodded and felt Garrett tugging at his shirt sleeve. “What? What? Tell me. I want to know. What about Jared?”

“Tell you later. Anyways, Alan, I’m sure we’ll see you in a bit. Gonna keep walking.”

“Be careful. By the way, have either of you seen Floyd Wiggins?”

“No,” Dylan said. “If he’s here, he’ll be sitting at the Shriners’ booth chatting it up with everyone over coffee.”

“I ask because I went into Avery’s this morning and he wasn’t there. A Mr. Taggart said Floyd didn’t answer his phone when he called him this morning.”

“He said his leg had been bothering him. Maybe that’s why.”

“Maybe so. Maybe so.” Alan didn’t like it. It was in the air and he could taste it. Death had swallowed up this little town and, as Floyd had warned him, all bets were off.

3

Downtown Durden looked cosmopolitan when compared to downtown Hemming. Hemming didn't even have a traffic light, but Durden had dozens of them. It was equally desolate and lacked any sort of entertainment, but come Friday night, the main drag was alive with teenagers crawling in their hand-me-down compacts and short-bed pickups.

Sheriff Ned Robertson often found his way into Durden to treat himself to a fine meal once his shift was over, usually at The Eagle. The Eagle was probably the only affordable upper-middle-class eating establishment in town and had been for fifty years. There had been a few chains that tried for a few months, but they went away quietly and generic Mexican restaurants had taken their place. Ned showed up every Friday night while his wife was at home hosting her weekly book club discussion. He'd eat supper at The Eagle and head on over to Avery's for an hour or so, usually to play a game of blackjack with Shitty Smitty in a booth by the jukebox. Worthwhile conversation was easily found pouring out of the mouths of the early-risers at Avery's, but in a hopping little joint like this, cheap talk was exceptionally rare. Besides, it made him feel more important, more elite to dine among the well-to-do socialites of local government.

A polished bar with matching mahogany stools had taken the place of the smoking section once Arlo County had allowed the sale of liquor, but no one was sitting at it. Most everyone would be at the fair right now, and even though Ned was off-duty, he kept his radio on in case Cooley or one of the other deputies ran into any snakes, but he really kept it on so he could hear whose kids were caught smoking weed behind the funhouse and things of that sort.

He recognized the woman behind him by her cackling laughter. She was Margaret Oates, the assistant director of the Arlo County Archives and part-time substitute teacher. She was also one of them damn shakers down at Sand Mountain.

Ned ordered a steak and a tall draft. Fingers gripped his shoulder.

“Howdy, Ned. I mean Sheriff.”

He spun around. “Hello, Margaret. How goes it?”

“It goes. You know George Prescott, don't you?” She pointed to the man sitting across from her lowering an oxygen mask from his pale face.

Ned nodded at him. “Yeah, George and I go way back. He was on the force for a while.” Now he owns the funeral home Ned had become so accustomed to visiting over the years.

Margaret leaned in close and whispered “Have you heard the news?”

“What news?”

“Oh, praise be to Jesus, you won't believe it, Ned. It's about the Keeper.”

“Don’t bother me with that horseshit, Margaret,” Ned said, grabbing his beer.

“Ned Robertson, you––”

“I mean it. Just keep that holy-rolling bibble-babble to yourself, okay?”

“We know who it is.”

“Oh, it's a real-life person?” Ned asked, bored. “I thought––”

“I can't say anything here, but come by––”

Ned took her delicate hand and held it in his own. “Sweetie pie, I'm just not interested. You understand?”

“Suit yourself,” Margaret said. She got up and adjusted her floral print dress that hung to her ankles. "Let their blood be on your hands then."

And with that, she paid the bill and wheeled George out through the front door. When his steak arrived, Ned ordered another draft.

4

After rolling back into Hemming, Ned stopped off at Avery's to top off his tank and shoot the bull with Avery and Shitty Smitty. He wasn't in the mood for cards tonight. Something about the way Margaret nearly burst from her skull with excitement when she'd said
We know who it is.

It's just the same old bunch of mythical malarkey he'd been hearing for years since Carl Motley took over as the head cheese at the Sand Mountain Church. He'd heard it for at least a decade and that was far too much for any sane man to tolerate. But these folks actually believed some fellow with a sack full of snakes is going around knocking off youngsters because the devil told him to. If
God
told him to do it, it'd be met with the same critical attention, but Ned Robertson wasn't a God-fearing or Satan-fearing man. He'd had his own drag-out with religion when he was a kid living with his grandmother in Lewiston. She'd bop his ass if he didn't know the book of Job from memory. If a gun was put to his head, he could probably reel out the whole book and not miss a lick. From the King James Version, of course. King Jimmy.

“You look ragged, Ned,” Avery said as he pulled a stack of bills from the register. He licked his thumb and counted them.

“The Sand Mountain folks are getting fired up again. I'm worried Motley will lead them into a manhunt.”

“Manhunt?”

Ned told him about his conversation with Margaret Oates.

“Ah, she's a crazy old bitch, Ned. Pardon my French. Her nuts and bolts are getting loser by the minute.”

“It’s not just her, Avery, it's all of them. Bunch of crazy fuckin loonies, I say,” he said, then over his shoulder “Sorry, Smitty, no offense.”

Smitty shrugged absently.

Ned picked at his cuticles until they bled.

“They're liable to hurt someone because they've fingered some fella for the Keeper.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I remember. We never found that guy, but I’d bet my boots Motley was involved. He’s a loose cannon. I just can't bring him in on anything. Not yet anyway.”

Avery walked over and locked the door. "Honest to God, Ned, I want to you nail the bastard, but if you want my opinion, I think you need to bring in some experts from the city to dig into this snake problem."

“They sent a guy named Blair. He arrived earlier this week.”

“He come up with anything?”

“Nah, not really. He’s just a kid himself. I don’t expect much to come of it.”

Smitty popped a quarter into the Wurlitzer and the ghost of Johnny Cash began to cry, cry, cry.

“Where’s he staying?” Smitty asked, spitting a gob of tobacco into the trashcan beside the jukebox.

“The Bartleby,” Ned said, wishing he hadn’t.

Smitty thumbed the straps on his overalls and broke wind. “He staying long?”

“Two weeks. Just don’t go blabbing to everyone about it. All I need is for Motley to get high-and-mighty and scare off this kid who’s doing us a favor, no matter how green he is.”

“Ayuh,” Smitty said. “Will do, Ned.”

Ned’s radio came to life.
“Sheriff, we’ve got a situation down here at the fair. You better get down here right away.”

5

The loudspeakers on the midway were blaring “Living After Midnight” when Jared and Gina both heard the deadsong. It seemed to come from all around, and the screaming kids on the Ferris wheel and the Zipper didn’t help. Gina and Jared ran through the clusters of people pointing up toward one of the buckets dangling from the Ferris wheel. It rocked violently back and forth as Brock Wilcox stood up in it. He was looking down at his feet.

Deputies Cooley and Bryant were yelling at the attendant to bring the wheel around, but the attendant pulled levers and pressed buttons without luck. They were all sweating it out, yelling and pointing as others began to scream as well.

Jared closed his eyes and felt out the scene and turned to Gina. “There’s six of them up there––snakes. And I feel more around but I don’t know where they are.”

“Well, do something!”

“I can’t! Pearson’s controlling them and I can’t take them back.”

“Try!”

Jared squeezed his eyes shut once again, probing through the noise and began to sing. Gina heard it drowning out all that her ears could take, and no one seemed to notice. The two deadsongs overlapped, building a chaotic chorus that fought on a supernatural level, and each was completely different. Mr. Pearson’s was more mature, refined, but much less powerful than Jared’s. Kids howled in pain, echoing, reverberating all through Gina’s brain and it was simply too much. She wanted to throw up or pass out or run away, but she gripped Jared’s arm to keep her feet planted on the ground.

“It’s too late,” he said. The words were barely out his mouth when Brock Wilcox hit the ground ten feet ahead of them. His face and arms were painted glossy red. Lights from the Zipper danced across the body, animating it with broad pulses of blue, green, and yellow.