Servants of the Storm (22 page)

“I love this ride,” I say agreeably.

“You’re going to have the time of your life,” he says, stepping closer until just the turnstile bar is between us. He puts his face near mine and sniffs me like I’ve seen my father sniff a cigar. I stiffen a little and pray that Gigi’s hex is as powerful as I’ve always imagined she herself is.

“So pure,” he says to himself. “This must be your first time at Riverfest.”

“I came here with my parents once,” I say.

He pauses to turn toward the screaming as the machine drops. Closing his eyes, he inhales in ecstasy. I glance quickly at Baker, but he’s gazing off into space with a goofy smile.

“You’re next, darling,” the lynx-eared man says, holding back the chain, and I walk through beside Baker. I avoid looking at the four people clawing their way off the ride and hyperventilating. One of them threw up all over himself, and I sit several seats down from where he just was. By the time the kids reach the gate out of the Free Fall area, they’re all dreamy and calm again, as if nothing ever happened. Even the guy who lost his dinner hasn’t noticed the chunks dribbling down his shirt.

The last thing I want to do in the entire world is strap myself into this broke-down, rusty, damaged machine and trust my life to a corpse and a pervy demon. But if I refuse to get on the ride, they’ll know something is wrong with me. And that’s the end of me, of Carly, maybe even of Baker. Looking down at my mitten-hidden pinkie finger just reminds me that if I’m not very, very careful, I’ll be dead and nowhere near resting in peace.

I’ll be forcing other kids onto these rides or leading them into Charnel House.

So I choose a seat and tighten the waist strap until it digs into my stomach. I pull down the bar and snap it into place and jerk on it a few times to make sure it’s secure. Beside me Baker does
the same things, but with the carefree cool of someone walking on a beach. Not a care in the world. He wraps his hands around the ice-cold bar and kicks his long legs like a little kid. I begin to think that half a bottle of the clear stuff might have been way, way too much, not that I could have stopped him. Guilt washes over me. Why did I tell him about the clear stuff? If something happens to Baker, I’ll never forgive myself.

I’m not ready, and I’ll never be ready, but the corpse girl pushes the button, and up we go. I can feel every clank in my butt, like it’s nothing more than one rusty chain dragging us thousands of feet into the air to our deaths. Far below me and growing smaller all the time, the lynx man grins with teeth that are way too tall and waves to me in slow motion. I wave back and start to hyperventilate.

“This is so great,” Baker says.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” I say over and over again. “We are going to die.”

The machine coughs and jerks a few times, and I whimper. Baker leans over and grabs my hand—luckily the whole one. His face in the moonlight is sad and serious and earnest and adoring, beautiful even. The machine grinds and splutters before jerking us upward. I close my eyes. I always wanted a boy to look at me this way. But not now. Not like this. And not him.

“Don’t be scared, Dovey,” he says. “I’m here. I’ll always be here. You can squeeze my hand if you need to.”

I’m already squeezing his hand so hard, I can feel our bones rubbing together, but he doesn’t complain. Up and up we go, and
the car leans a little. There’s got to be more than gravity holding this tower of rusted metal aloft. Our weight alone should pull it over. But the cart clicks into place and slides outward. Demon magic is freaky, freaky stuff.

Far below I hear the lynx man yell, “Scream for me, morsel!”

And then the cart drops, and I fly upward into the bar, and I can’t help but do exactly what he’s commanded. I scream bloody murder, so hard that I pee myself a little, so hard that my throat hurts. Beside me Baker yells, “Wooooo-hoooo!” and puts his hands in the air.

“Hold on! Hold on, you asshole!” I screech.

The cold air knifes into my face as we fall, my mouth already dry. We’re moving too fast, the ground racing to meet us. Sparks fly above us and fall around my head. The lynx man gets closer, so close I can see his face held aloft in ecstasy. I’m screaming the whole time.

At the very last moment, when we’re about to be squashed to bits, the machine catches us. We bounce and drift back up, and no matter how gentle it looked when the other people did it, my teeth clack together and my butt aches. The chain catches again, and with a loud clank we drift down.

“That was awesome,” Baker says, feet swinging.

I have to keep my mouth shut now, or else my heart is going to flop out like a fish.

“How disappointing,” the lynx man says when the car comes to a stop, his lips drawn up in a sneer.

I wait a moment, making sure he won’t tell the corpse girl to raise us again. But he just stares at us in disgust. As quickly as I
can, I unhook the bar and belt and jump off, my legs wobbling as my feet find the cracked concrete.

The lynx man sniffs Baker, then me. He looks us up and down.

“You must be hungry,” he says. “Go to one of the concession stands. And come back later.” He smiles, showing those long, crooked teeth. “You need to marinate.”

Baker takes off for the gate, and I scramble to follow him as I search every shadow for Carly.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Can’t you smell it?” he says. “Funnel cake. And pizza. I’m starving all of a sudden.”

“I bet you are,” I mumble. “What do you see?”

“Jesus, Dovey, what do you think? There’s the caricature booth, the ring toss, the bumper cars. And the concession stand’s just around the corner. I’d know that smell anywhere.”

Funny thing, though. There is no caricature booth. The ring toss is a pile of splintered lumber. And the bumper cars look like a miniature freeway catastrophe. The cars are empty, some overturned, some smashed. There are lumpy bundles splayed around in front of them that look way too much like crushed bodies. I don’t look too closely.

On the other side of the bumper car pavilion is a concrete shack with a crooked sign reading Swampy’s Snack Shack. There’s a big molded alligator eating a puff of cotton candy on top, but all the colors have faded down to nothing and the gator’s eyes are black holes in the moonlight. A single fluorescent light flickers
off to the side. A line of about twenty kids waits in front of a take-out window. It’s pitch black inside the shack.

I watch that window, hoping for a glimpse of Carly on the other side. It reminds me a lot of the window from the kitchen that delivered my food at Charnel House. A tray slides out with two plastic drink cups on it, and the next two kids in line start slurping something dark through silly straws. The tray disappears. The next kids step up, and another tray arrives. All down the line, no one speaks. No one places an order or says please or thank you. No money is exchanged. But everyone walks away attached to the drink by a straw, sucking at it like a baby with a bottle, like they’re so thirsty they couldn’t stop if they tried.

“Can we just stop at Waffle House on the way home?” I ask Baker.

“No way,” he says. “I’m dying.” He doesn’t see me flinch.

The line moves quickly, and more kids join up behind us. None of them are familiar, but they all have the same dopey look. When it’s our turn, Baker grabs his drink and starts gulping, and I hold mine up and pretend.

“Man, that hits the spot,” he says.

I’m afraid to let the liquid touch my lips. The cup is cold and heavier than it should be. I try to dash Baker’s to the ground or snatch it away from him, but he’s bigger and stronger than me now, and he just wraps an arm around me and holds me close, my arms pinned to my sides. I’m glad when he finishes the damn thing and I can throw my cup into an overflowing can.

“Let’s ride the Hurricane next,” Baker says. “I hear it— Wait.”

He looks intense, like he’s listening to something important. All the other kids are frozen too.

“What is it?”

“Shush. Come on. There’s going to be a special show.”

I didn’t hear a single thing, but everyone else is now moving with purpose, walking up a hill. We join the silent throng of kids and distal servants and demons, the only sounds the scuffing of tennis shoes and the rustling of coats. I grab the tail of Baker’s army jacket so I don’t lose him as I scan the crowd for Carly. We’re moving toward a dome, and I recall watching synchronized swimming and a diving show there as a kid. There are a few rips in the roof that now make the building look like a skull with some of the skin torn off.

After we walk through the open double doors, I tug Baker’s jacket and pull him down the back row of concrete bleachers. Everyone else is quietly struggling to get as close as possible, but I want to be next to the aisle and near the exit and away from whatever it is at the front of the domed theater that wants to be near me. I also want to be able to scan the crowd for Carly’s cornrows and orange jacket.

The pool down below is lit with waterproof emergency lights, and it’s glowing an eerie blue. The underside of the ravaged dome shimmers with the light reflecting off the stagnant pool that serves as a stage. When I was a kid, that pool was full of clear blue water, utterly delicious-looking after an afternoon in Savannah’s summer heat. Slim women in glittering bathing suits used to do graceful
swan dives here. But now what little water is left is brownish-black and shifts unnaturally. One light shines on the lowest diving platform, but no one is looking at it. They’re watching the water.

They know something I don’t. And they’re waiting for it.

“What’s happening?” I ask Baker.

“She’s coming,” he whispers in a high voice that makes all the baby hairs on my arms stand up.

We’re the only ones sitting in the back row, while all the other human kids are up front. I don’t see anyone who looks under twelve or over twenty. Distal servants sit among them, still and stupid, and demons hang around the edges, whispering together. Just like Isaac said, they all have weird animal aspects, ears or horns or snouts. The arena is about a quarter full, perhaps a hundred people total. Lots of the kids look homeless or like they’re on drugs, but there are plenty of normal kids just like me and Baker, and even some rich kids.

I think back to the rumors I’ve heard about parties and raves out here in the ruins of Riverfest. I know it’s a regular thing, and now I know why it’s never been busted by the cops—because the demons plan it, keep the kids coming, and probably cover it up with their stupid magic. Gigi called it a buffet, and I guess that’s what it is—a secret place where the demons can feed on people’s fear and emotions. The pills and the drinks, they must be like salt and pepper, spices to make people taste better, to magnify their emotions. As if teens weren’t emotional enough already. And does no one ever notice that these kids are missing? Are these the kids on the fliers under the photo wall at Café 616?

Wait. Are my parents missing me right now? I’m betting they don’t even know I’m gone. Goddamn pills.

A weird hum starts somewhere up front. Baker joins it, but my mouth is too dry to make a sound. Even though the arena is barely lit, somehow it gets darker. There’s a noise outside, like things are being dragged all over the place. Dry rasps, clicks, and an undeniable hiss.

No one else looks away from that pool.

I turn to see what’s coming in through the double doors at the top of the stairwell and struggle not to pull my legs up onto the concrete ledge. First comes a snake, a fat brown one with a lethal-looking, triangular-shaped head. Then another and another, some all knotted together and kind of rolling along. They’re pouring in through all the doors, slithering down the sloping ramps to that black pool. The demons rear back against the walls, hissing and flapping like trapped bats. But this is their party. Why can’t they leave?

I desperately want to move my mittened hand from where it sits on the bleacher, but the other kids aren’t moving at all. They’re still as statues, making that low, eerie hum. More and more snakes pour in through all the doors. Most of them surge toward the stage and disappear into the black pool with a meaty plop. But a few of them must be drawn to our warmth. Tails disappear down the aisles, wending between the legs of jeans and over shoes. A long, thick water moccasin turns down our aisle, and I force myself to freeze as it slithers over my boot. Its eyes look as dreamy and drugged as the humans’, and I don’t want it to wake up. I shove my fist into
my mouth to keep myself from screaming when it curls up between Baker’s One Stars.

The hushed rasp of the snakes has passed, but the dragging noise outside is getting closer. I imagine black-eyed distal servants dragging body bags along the ground. I imagine dead corpses crawling. But when I see what’s actually squeezing through the double doors, it’s much, much worse than I had anticipated.

Alligators.

Big ones and little ones. They snap at each other as they fight their way through the doors, hissing and flinging their tails. The last ones that pass by are monsters, over fifteen feet long, and the smell of death and decay rises off their wet scales. They flop and rumble down the aisles, racing each other to get there first as the demons cower and shrink back, turning their ruined faces away. The beasts slip into the black pool and disappear.

I sigh in relief, one eye on the moccasin at Baker’s feet. Does he even know it’s there? But I can’t say anything. Even if the distal servants can’t talk and the demons are busy acting like something actually scares them, I still know that we’re being watched.

The humming takes on an even lower tone, and the snakes and alligators roil in the black pool. It looks like oil or tar, and it’s heaving from within. Outside the arena the largest thing yet drags itself slowly toward the double doors. Drag, pause. Drag, pause.

The humming goes impossibly low, so low that I can feel it in my rib cage. My fingers curl around the edge of my seat, my head
facing the pool while my eyes strain sideways to watch the door for whatever is coming next.

A heavy stench rolls in, dank and thick. It reminds me of the scent that clung to the low, old part of Bonaventure Cemetery after the flooding, when they were still finding bodies that had floated up and were trying to put them back to rest.