Dead Men's Pockets

Love is a razor and I walked the line
On that silver blade
Slept in the dust with his daughter
Her eyes red with
The slaughter of innocence
But I will pray for her
I will call her name out loud
I would bleed for her
If only I could see her now
-- The Evil That Men Do, Iron Maiden

     Twenty Minutes Ago:
     The slat board fence didn't sit very tight to the ground, and the little wolf pup was good at digging. It wriggled and grunted and snorted like a pig as it worked, dirt and saw dust flying out between its legs. The pup, a male, and possibly the runt of the litter, knew he was going to be in enough trouble for two litters worth of wolf puppies, but he just couldn't help himself. The smells coming from the carnival were just too wonderful to resist. He drooled as he worked, frantic to get in at all those magnificent scents.
     It took him about ten minutes, and when he finally got under the fence, he was covered in dirt, tail wagging with frantic excitement, nose going a mile a minute. Mother was going to kill him for this, but it was so going to be worth it. He bounded into the cloud of glorious, food-filled scents with all the feral exuberance one puppy could manage.

* * *

     Now:
     Alice knew a shitstorm coming when she saw one. She'd gotten pretty familiar with the warning signs over the years. Despite her best efforts, shitstorms were often the result of her presence. That's what comes of having an elemental fiend of chaos in place of a soul.
     It had seemed so straight forward when she planned it out. Junior had found itself a good feeding ground, and it happened to be a magic carnival, and that wasn't so surprising, because the damn things were a dime a dozen. She'd introduce herself to the critter in charge, because it was almost never just a man or woman, apply some persuasion, possibly some funds, whatever was necessary, and then she could get on with the hunt.
     Here was a man in charge, and she couldn't even get two words in edgewise. She'd explained how she'd gotten the ticket, and really, was it so damn strange that she'd looted it off a dead body? That's what dead bodies were for, right? Find a dead body, go through the pockets, standard operating procedure. Dead men had all kinds of interesting things in their pockets. This had turned to an accusation from the man in the godless jacket – Stevens – aimed at the ticket booth operator – Dav, apparently – that a stolen ticket should not have been honored, and that wasn't fair, because it wasn't really stealing when you were taking it from someone who couldn't use it anymore, was it?
     Dav had gone red-faced almost immediately, retaliating with a blistering lecture in haiku concerning the limits of Stevens' authority over him, which in turn had incited Stevens to some red-faced yelling of his own concerning said limits, and how they might apply to Dav. All of which had degenerated into heated bickering over who got to do what, and how the other should really be in charge of that, and – Jesus, why don't they just get a room? Alice wondered. They were face to face, fingers jabbing angrily at each other, snarling in unguarded jealousy over their positions and powers and how what each other had should be their own.
     Alice had shuffled back a few steps, pretty sure things were going to come to blows shortly. She'd dug out her battered cigarette pack and lit one up. She enjoyed a good show as much as anyone else, and this one was looking pretty spectacular. Stevens was taller and had better reach, and anyone running around in a jacket like that must have a huge swinging set of heuvos, but Dav had the weight advantage of a professional Sumo wrestler, and Alice was nearly positive he was Fae of some flavor or another. There was no such thing as a Fae who wasn't hell on wheels in a fight. She stepped back another pace or two. She didn't want to get any on her.
     Out of the corner of her eye, she saw another entry approaching, a fair-sized black man, skin the color of dark chocolate, hair done in long, beaded corn rows that draped down over his shoulders and swung as he walked. He was done up in a wild lion-tamer's get-up, red silk shirt, leather pants, knee boots made of some reptile skin or another, zebra print vest. Alice vowed on the spot never to work in a carnival. Their fashion sense was atrocious. The lion tamer was also carrying a coiled bull whip in one heavy hand, and he walked with the confident stride of a man who wrangled large, dangerous animals for a living and wasn't worried about some middle management punk and his fat ticket booth adversary.
     “Stevens! Dav! What the hell?” His voice thundered, a rolling rich bass filled in with a rumbling growl. It was a great voice for a lion tamer.
     “Stay out of this, Vincente!” Stevens whirled on the man, actual foam flying from his lips. Alice had heard the phrase before, but had never seen it. She was beginning to wish she'd brought popcorn. She was pretty sure the new arrival, Vincente, could clean every clock in the entrance, possibly including hers. He had that kind of swagger to him.
     Vincente held up his free hand, open, palm out. “Easy, Stevens. What the hell are you two arguing about?”
     Stevens started with “This fat bastard” and a savage finger jab at Dav, but Alice was far more interested in Vincente's reaction, which was wide-eyed concern. No, not concern. She flicked ashes as she studied the man. More like alarm. Yes. She glanced back at the two men who were now trying to shout over each other in their haste to explain how the other had clearly overstepped his bounds, and then back to Vincente. The sense of alarm and worry in his eyes was growing with each word from Stevens and Dav.
     Alice gained the sudden insight that these two men were acting wildly out of character. For all she'd known, these two were at each other's throats all day every day, but judging by the lion tamer's reaction, that wasn't the case. Alice knew that she had a tendency to interject a little random and chaos into every situation, a byproduct of her Shadow's presence, but she was pretty sure she wasn't responsible for this. She glanced again at the two men, squinting at them, but whatever pulse it was that worked to hide the Carnival's true nature from her patrons had fuzzed Alice's usually acute vision. She was willing to bet that there was something at work in the two men, but she couldn't determine what it was.
     Junior? she wondered.
     Unlikely. The Shadow's voice in the back of her mind was, as always, cold, dry, empty of inflection, like the low chill whisper of dead leaves blowing in a winter wind.
     Can you tell what it is?
     Not from this distance. Let me touch them.
     Alice snorted to herself. The Shadow's words were weighted with hunger. The Shadow was always hungry. No fucking way.
     Be wary, then. The Shadow fell silent, and Alice glanced around and spotted --
     “Ah, shit.” It was the goddamn clown, the painted pink travesty Alice had blown a gigantic hole in just a few hours ago. “Fucking undead.” She muttered to herself, flicking her cigarette butt away. Time to scoot. She hated to miss the fight, but she wasn't sticking around for round two with Crazy the Giggling Psycho Clown. She stepped back into the shadow thrown by the ticket booth, letting it coat and hide her, and then drifted away into the Carnival.

* * *

     It was the strangest feeling, a little like being slightly stoned on something. Roger was living behind his own eyes, firmly in control of his own actions, but everything was a little disjointed, a little out of shape, kind of fuzzy. Everything sounded like a good idea, and there was a soft, warm voice full of good ideas just behind his left shoulder, whispering in his ear. For example, this right here, this was a great idea.
     He was behind a dark, quiet tent, and there was a woman with him. Well, a girl, really, she probably wasn't even twenty yet. She was damn cute, though, and from the look of her, she'd definitely been drinking her milk. Did a body good, that stuff, no kidding. Her tits, for example. She had amazing tits, great big handfuls of them. He knew that for a fact, because he had big hands, and they were both overflowing with the girl's bounty.
     She was a little on the chunkier side, what Roger had grown up calling “corn fed”, a sturdy sort of girl. She had an adorable bob hair cut, straight and dark brunette, and big, soft, hazel eyes, a little hazy and red at the moment, because he'd caught her smoking weed under a ride with four of her friends. That amiable voice just behind his shoulder had advised him to tell the friends to bugger off, and so they had, without even a protest. Almost like they didn't have a choice.
     The girl herself – Sammi? Wendy? Something like that – had known the score. The big bad cop had caught her smoking weed, and she didn't want possession on her record, possession and possibly dealing, because she had a lot of weed. The voice had suggested, you know, there were ways for pretty girls to talk cops out of arresting them. And what a great idea that was. Just awesome. God, and she was so damn cute, and she'd hardly cried at all, and now that he had her under him she felt just amazing, and she seemed like she was enjoying it. Well, of course she was, because that nice, friendly voice had suggested she should, and why shouldn't she? Roger felt like he could keep going for hours, rocking into her while she squealed and moaned and dug her fingers into his shoulders.
     What are you doing? You're married!
     This voice sounded really familiar, but it was also really far away. It was shrill, panicked almost, but it was hundreds of miles away, a voice blown in on a lonely wind, and even though it sounded just like his own voice, Roger found it was easy to ignore. Of course it was, because he was currently having the most fantastic sex of his life, and the girl – Mindy? Linda? -- was groaning and bucking her hips up to meet him, and Jesus, it was like his cock was made out of iron or something, he could keep at her for months.
     Her eyes were rolled back in her head and she was approaching another mind-blowing orgasm. There was blood trickling from the corner of her mouth, probably because he had his hands around her throat a little too tightly, but the voice reassured him that everything was okay, everything was just fine, there were no problems here, and it sure wasn't slowing her down any. God, she was just loving it, praising Jesus and thanking God as she came again, her voice harsh grunts now, because she was having a hard time breathing.
     You're killing her! You're fucking killing her!
     That voice was beyond panic, now, well into the screaming heights of hysteria, and it was kind of spoiling Roger's rhythm, but the nice voice in his left ear said everything was all good, and that drowned out the internal screaming.
     When his orgasm hit it was like a nuclear bomb, and everything went all white and fuzzy and brilliant, and the girl – Brenda? Ronda? -- had her legs locked around his hips, hands clutching his half-open shirt with a death grip, back arced almost to breaking, mouth open and head thrown back in a soundless howl full of bloody bubbles. He collapsed on her, gasping for breath and running with sweat, and somewhere deep in the back of his mind, the shrieking had fallen away to shaking sobs, but with the voice in his ear, those were no bother at all. He rolled off the girl – Donna! That was it! -- thinking to ask her for a cigarette, and looked over at her.
     Oh.
     She was dead.
     Well, no matter. She'd died happy.
     After a little bit, Roger got up, tucking his junk away and buttoning his clothes back up. The voice thought he should go find some other girl, and damn, what an excellent suggestion that was. Roger wandered off, whistling to himself.

* * *

     Alice knew she was being followed. She was a little surprised about it. Sticking to the shadows didn't quite render her invisible, but with the darkness cloaking her, it was damn close. Whatever followed was a huge hulk of thing. She'd spotted it out of the corner of her eye a couple of times, but for such a large creature, it was amazingly nimble and agile, and really good at ducking out of sight in the nick of time. Still, she knew it was there, and it was staying back, and she was pretty sure it wasn't Junior, so she was willing to let it follow for the time being.
     The crowd was having a great time, and time had stretched out thin. Alice could feel it like a rubber band stretched almost to breaking, but the customers didn't seem to notice that the evening was going on for a whole lot longer than it should. She stayed off the main path and out of the way of the revelry. She didn't have any intentions of joining it or disrupting it. She was a professional, and she had a job to do. She intended to do it as quietly as she possibly could, although now that she was disarmed, she wasn't quite sure how she was going to manage that. Losing all her toys limited her to the nuclear options. It wasn't her favorite place to be, but she'd been there before and she could deal with it.
     She had gotten quite a ways away from the main gates, and judging from the screaming in the sky over that way, it had been a good idea to do so. In the mean time, she'd seen a whole hell of a lot of weirdness, but she'd seen weird things before, so she didn't let it bother her. Granted, this was more weird than she was used to, but Alice was willing to take it as normal operations for the Carnival of Souls. She'd passed a couple of attractions already, the midway full of games, for one, and a Wax Museum, and she could feel the weight of the golden ticket in her pocket, wanting to drag her towards them. She steeled her will and ignored the pull of the ticket.
     She was getting on towards the back of the Carnival, into some darker, quieter tents, away from the crowds. The ticket wanted to tug her towards a House of Mirrors. She ignored that too, circling around a dark tent and --
     “Well. Damn.” Alice pulled up short, glancing around. She was alone as far as she could tell. Sprawled out in front of her was a dead girl, clothes torn lewdly askew, blood still draining from her mouth. Alice rubbed her face with her good hand, raking her hair out of her face. The girl's throat was mottled purple with bruises. Alice blinked at the body, glancing around again. She tucked her hand in her pocket, approaching slowly.
     There was the crack of a foot stepping on something and Alice froze, looking up. The huge hulk had come around the opposite side of the tent, and was staring at her. It carried an unspeakable aura of gleeful menace.
     “What is it with this place and the fucking clowns?” She threw both hands out in irritation and was promptly sorry as her bad hand throbbed achingly with the motion.
     The clown, a huge, lop-sided man with one arm like a tree trunk, growled at her, a low and ominous sound. His bulbous nose wrinkled up as his painted lips pulled back in something half a grin and half a snarl, revealing teeth filed down to sharp, jagged points. Carnival lights gleamed off his bald head. He was wearing a dingy white wife beater and baggy jeans, big, black work boots like blocks, and his chalk white face was painted in a lurid red grin that looked like fresh blood, sunken eyes colored in bright blue half circles that only shadowed them further. Both his fists were slowly opening and closing in time with his heavy breath.
     Alice sensed trouble looming on the horizon. She glanced down at the dead body, back up at the clown. “I swear, I didn't do it.”
     The clown glared murder and hate at her, then let his gaze fall to the body. He looked it up and down, and now his mouth twisted into something more like a frown. He lumbered forward. He walked like the ground should shake with each step, and Alice quelled the urge to move back and give herself room. The clown crouched beside the body. He leaned in close, snorting at the air above the body, then looked up at Alice.
     “What happened?” His voice was a grating thing, rusty and deep.
     Alice sucked air against her teeth with a tsking noise, and chanced moving closer. “Offhand?” She said with consideration. “I'd say something fucked her to death.” She stood with her back to the lights, so her shadow fell over the body and the clown.
     The clown made another low, angry growl, and much to Alice's surprise, began straightening the dead girl's clothes, providing the corpse some decency. She lifted her eye brows, musing the possibilities. This had to be Junior's work, and the clown seemed to be taking it a bit personally.
     “Did you know the gal?” At least this one seemed the kind of crazy that could be talked to, as opposed to the Pink Psycho.
     He shook his head. “Smells like that thing out in the parking lot.”
     “That was you?” Alice remembered the fight she'd seen out in the parking lot. It seemed like days ago now. The way time was running in this place, it might have been. “Nice work.” She added, one professional to another.
     “Thanks.” The clown added a sneer to the words, giving her that jagged grin again.
     “I'm looking for the thing that did this.”
     The clown continued to grin. “So am I.”
     “Marvelous.” Alice put on a smile. It looked about as friendly as the clown's. She'd always done her best work when she had a big scary guy watching her back, anyways. “What say we find it and give it a really bad day?”
     “Sounds like fun to me.”
     “Fantastic. Got a name?”
     The clown stood. It was like watching a mountain thunder up from the earth. “They call me Violent Clay.”
     “I wonder why.” Alice said pleasantly, offering her good hand out. “They call me Black Alice.”
     Clay engulfed her hand in his monstrous meat paw and shook it, squeezing just enough to let Alice know he could pulp her without even flexing all the way. “Where do we start?”
     “Well,” said Alice, “If you could step out of the way, I've got a friend who wants to look the body over.” She gestured for the clown to move. Her shadow, stark black against the gray ground, did not.