At the wooden festival gate, I noticed a padlock, open and hanging from its metal bracket….a lucky break. I opened the gate and let the others through before entering and closing it behind me, securing the gate with a crude barricade that locked into place with the twist of a small wooden rod. Mr. Truck arrived shortly after and pounded on the wooden fence like an angry neighbor, but the gate remained closed.
A chemical smell hit my nostrils and I realized we’d entered through a utility gate and into a section of portable toilets placed around us in half-circles. The ground was muddy from foot traffic and I focused on keeping my balance until we reached paths with dirty plywood laid down to bridge the sludge. We followed the path around a corner towards the entrance, where the surroundings improved from toilets and mud to the conical roofs and skinny flags of a renaissance fair, this one eerily quiet.
My eyes caught moving shadows in the cool, dark places revs could shelter during the day to keep from rapid decomposition in the sun. Swarms of flies also alerted to their presence, attracted to the rotten flesh you could smell long before seeing them. But flies couldn’t be relied on as the only sign of rev presence, as they loved many other stinky things.
“We can take the Queen’s Walk,” said Sue Spirit. “It runs past the castle to the front of the fair. The queen takes this route when she comes to parade past her ‘subjects.’”
Small banners and flags strung across the top of the Queen’s Walk flapped in the afternoon breeze, inviting under any other context. We followed Sue’s lead, keeping low and quiet, before reaching a giant ship for one of the festival’s performances, a stage jutting from it like a shady patio under a high canopy of trees. Five rows of wooden benches contained an audience of dead bodies and their parts, with a clear aisle cutting through the middle like Moses had passed through. Skull ‘n crossbones flags flew from the ship and a weathered wooden sign nailed to the ship read “One-Legged Bob.”
From the open door on the stage’s back wall, two rev pirates appeared in the entryway, then two more, and two more after that. They shambled onto the stage as though unsure about the sunlight shining through breaks in the trees, but then saw us lingering near the cheap seats and their self-preservation dwindled with the prospect of a fresh kill. One of them, festooned as the pirate captain with ribbons in his fake beard and costume jewelry draping from ears, neck, wrists, and fingers, clunked along on a bona fide peg leg. This was Bob.
Sam shot two of the dead pirate crew and they joined the bodies draped over the rows of seats near the stage, allowing him to take care of One-Legged Bob. Sam swept Bob’s peg leg with his leg to bring the pirate to the ground in a sweet move, followed by a bash to the skull with his pistol butt and a few opening notes of the “Star-Spangled Banner.”
Tarah pursued the remaining pirates and quickly dispatched the last one, who was wearing a stuffed parrot sewn to the costume’s shoulder. She ripped the parrot free while keeping her boot on the pirate’s neck to hold her down.
We paused, watching her with interest.
“What?” she asked in a little girl’s voice as she put the bird in her front pocket. “It has pretty colors.”
We waited for more revs attracted to the commotion and after a few settling moments, we continued down the Queen’s Walk, stepping around costumed bodies along the path. We heard plenty of revs growling around but saw none running loose. Were they confined somewhere, unable to reach us?
Beyond the pirate ship stood a row of small shops. One of them caught my eye and I diverted toward it. “Hey…this way for a sec.”
We moved to the small shop, which was a wooden booth open on three sides, with a sign above the door that read “Medieval Metal.” I disregarded the barrels of wooden swords at the entrance—strategically placed as “sale bait” to lure children and their parents to a quick impulse purchase—and headed to the back of the shop, where I suspected the good stuff could be found.
A glass case held several daggers of various lengths, a mace that looked heavy as hell, and a one-handed battle axe, its double blade wedged wide like opposing evil grins. I shuddered, just imagining the splatter damage while mowing down a group of revs with these “up close and personal” melee tools. Firearms used their distance as a buffer for the gruesome act of violence and stabbing someone in the gut while looking in their face, watching anger in their eyes turn to fear before fading away, would take some getting used to.
Hanging from wooden pegs on the wall behind the glass case were two long swords, a short sword half the size, and a spear in such good shape they could have been trophies in some rich guy’s wood-paneled den.
I stepped over the dead storekeeper lying behind the counter and grabbed the spear from the wall, surprised by its light weight compared to how sturdy it looked. The staff was much thicker than a broomstick but weighed about the same, the metal spear end providing just enough weight to slice through the air towards its target. I checked the price tag hanging from a string on its neck. “Three hundred bucks?”
“Take it…it’s yours,” Sam said. “Put it on my tab.” He held up the mace that he’d taken to right away…its fat, diamond-shaped head crafted to bash skulls in a particularly brutal manner.
Tara and Sue had both skipped unwieldy swords for long daggers with leather strips wrapped around the handles. Tarah had her rifle and a pistol, but Sue needed something besides her intuition if she was to survive. She was trying her best to keep up, but her vulnerability was nearly palpable and she clung to Sam and his alpha masculinity like plastic wrap. And being a natural protector, Sam took to the role, though he pretended not to.
A couple of shops down, at the “Knotty Root,” we found bows and arrows, though the quality was more for aesthetic display than function. Still, we took some to see what we could do with them. Supplementing bullets with arrows seemed like a good idea, as ammo was a constant concern, at least for everyone except Tarah.
As we moved through the fairgrounds, the hisses and howls from earlier grew louder, but nothing pointed to their location. We soon came upon a tall white building made from cheap material like particle board, with a sign reading “STOCKADE” in large letters lining the upper level. The second half of the ground floor was a faux jail, full of writhing revenants lined up against the metal bars like prisoners waiting in line to use the pay phone on Mother’s Day. Had they been more intelligent, they could have knocked the walls down simply with their body weight…and maybe they would find that out through accident if sufficiently riled up. Instead, they glowered at us through the prison bars, believing they could do no more.
“What is this?” Tarah asked. “A fake jail?”
“It’s a fund-raising ploy,” said Sue. “A friend or family of the ‘prisoner’ donates money to the fair officials, and the prisoner is ‘arrested’ until the Queen comes to humiliate them for whatever law they broke…usually a silly charge like like ‘Expelling wind before sunset.’ Then, after the fun and games are over and photos are taken of the prisoner, they free them after the fine is paid and then a new batch of criminals gets rounded up. They do this all day long and probably make a bundle of cash to keep the place running.”
We then reached the castle, the largest building on the grounds. It stood four stories from base to peak, white with blue trim, with painted wooden shingles glossy in the sunlight.
I heard a stirring coming from inside. “Keep an eye out,” I cautioned.
“We’re not going in there,” Tarah responded.
Sue Spirit pointed ahead. “We don’t have to. This path goes around the castle and towards the pub.”
Several revs spilled from the castle’s large door, dressed in the finest clothing I’d seen so far. They were the festival’s court: King, Queen, various pages, maidens, and hangers-on, in an unsteady parade of walking dead.
Invigorated with new confidence, we stepped up to battle against the King and his court with our new weaponry. Sue Spirit hung back with a short bow and flung arrows, at times even hitting something. Sam laid his mace into the side of the King’s head, his crown launching into the face of one of the Pages, who paused and gripped its face in a comically delayed reaction. “Check and mate,” Sam said, taking advantage of the pause to hammer his mace right into the Page’s head as well.
Sue Spirit fired a shot, her arrow catching Sam’s shirt sleeve as it zinged past.
“Hey, watch it with that thing!”
“Sorry!”
On Sam’s left, I took on three of the King’s men, slashing and stabbing with a spear and short sword. But my endurance for battle was nonexistent and I was almost immediately exhausted after I sent the three revs to the dirt.
Sam and I moved to Tarah side while she dealt with the Queen and her entourage, finding most of her enemies already lying in a heap of dirty polyester ruffles and fake jewelry.
I looked at Sam. “Maybe she should take point and handle all the revs from now on.”
With a foot propped on a maiden similar to the pirate she’d taken the parrot from, Tarah wiped black blood from her dagger using the revenant’s tattered dress. “I was hoping you two would step it up a bit. I thought I was going to have to help you out after I was done with this group.”
“Well, I’d call that a successful coup d’état,” said Sam. “Down with the monarchy! This fair is now a democracy and I vote we find the exit A-SAP. Who’s with me?”
There was a rustling, and we turned and found a straggling jester with a broken leg, late to the party and stumbling in for the kill. Sam stepped between us and pounded the jester across the head with his mace, the brass bells on its hat ringing a sharp “BRANG!” before it collapsed in a heap.
“He sounded like a Christmas tree falling over,” said Tarah, laughing.
We reached a fork in the path where the light gray walls of the pub, the “Shivering Quiver,” stood in the middle of the forking path in front of us. Two sets of swinging doors hung on each side of the entrance and although they were closed for business, there were sounds of activity inside. We weren’t about to pop in there for a drink.
Sam motioned everyone to keep low and quiet. “Which way, Sue?” he whispered.
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Both go in the same general direction. Left leads around the glassblower’s booth and the right goes to the playground.”
Sam crept around the front of the pub and checked the area off to the right. When he reached the corner, he waved us over. We followed his steps across the pub entrance, past the opening where any revs within could just step out and into the sunshine, catching up to Sam without a word.
Sam gestured to the play area. Still whispering: “It’s wide open and sunny over there. Nothing around.”
“Look past that flying dragon ride,” said Tarah, pointing.
My eyes moved to a white shack that stood at the edge of the fair, a large red cross painted on the front.
“Weapons and first aid?” I said. “A magical kingdom, indeed.”
“If we find an emergency exit nearby, it would be a trifecta of good fortune.”
We reached the far side of the fairground, where the King’s Path to the north joined the Queen’s Path that led along the southern row of vendor booths.
We stopped in front of the shack and Sam peeked over the edge through the open front window. “It’s all clear..”
We followed him into the shack, finding cots set up, along with shelves and cabinets, which we went through to add to our supplies. It wasn’t a full-fledged clinic, but it was enough to help with any injuries we wouldn’t need a professional for.
Suddenly, thunder clapped in the distance and the wind picked up as dark gray clouds rolled in, the storm front spilling across the sky like a dark wave on a stormy sea.
“That doesn’t look good,” said Sue. “We should find somewhere safer than this shack to wait out the storm.”
With our packs full of fresh supplies, we headed back to the path’s junction, looking for an exit. On the far corner of the grounds, I spotted an EXIT sign next to a gate and a gas-powered flatbed cart. “Hey, if that cart works, it’d be better than hoofing it.”
We reached the jousting arena just as the clouds released the first fat drops of rain. A large oval-shaped clearing with posts running down the middle, the arena held the corpses of six or seven horses, scattered in loose, dead heaps. As the rain began pouring and lightning flashed, I suggested we move with more urgency. Without warning, a bolt of lightning struck the pointed tower of the castle and we jumped to the muddy earth, stunned by the close encounter.
“There’s a lot of energy in the air right now,” said Sue Spirit. “Be prepared for anything.”
“Yeah, we know how electricity works,” said Tarah.
“That’s not the energy I’m talking about.”
“Real or woo woo…we should leave it in our rearview.”
Another lightning strike and the center of the arena began glowing in bluish electrical arcs, sparking across the horse corpses, and right before my untrustworthy eyes, the dead horses slowly rose from the muck and stood up, as though waking after a long rest.
Black wisps of smoke surrounded the horses as they grouped. The entire fairground was coming to life and the urge to run was overwhelming. I knew where the exit was and I was going for it.
The horses bolted toward us in an angry cloud of smoke and fury while we scrambled in the mud towards the gate, which seemed to grow in distance as we plodded along. The horses would soon be upon us.
The cart’s keys hung from the ignition like bait on a hook. Sam and I arrived first and he jumped in the driver’s seat, twisting the keys. The tiny motor roared to life, sounding like every suburban lawnmower on a Saturday morning.
“There’s no way this thing is going to outrun those things,” I said, climbing onto the passenger side. “Especially with our weight.”
“We don’t have to outrun them…we just need a chance to take ‘em down before they catch up. We’re a lot harder to trample if we’re moving around.”
With a jolt, the cart shifted forward just as Tarah and Sue Spirit reached the flatbed. In mid-sprint, Tarah grabbed the back of Sue’s cloak and tossed her onto the flatbed like a sack of flour, before slipping in the mud and ending up gripping a handle at the rear edge of the cart.
Sam glanced over his shoulder and shouted, “Hold on!” He slammed his foot on the gas as though trying to stomp the pedal right through the cart’s fiberglass floor, a dramatic movement inconsistent with the slight increase in speed.
Tarah’s grip slipped with the rain as we sped towards the gate. Ramming the gate could throw her off entirely, leaving her to the stampede. But with one arm wrapped around the back of my seat, Sue Spirit reached with her free hand and grabbed the top handle of Tarah’s backpack, her chin pushing to the sky as she stretched to her limit and the rain and wind blew her hood back to her shoulders.
Looking ahead, I knew a collision with the gate was imminent and braced for impact. Luckily, the cart crashed through the gate with ease, thanks to the cheap bracket nailed into rotting wood. Then we were through to the other side, out of the jousting arena and heading for the grass parking lot like a dog off the leash.
The horses continued their pursuit, but now outside the gate, we had more room to maneuver. Sam attempted evasive action, turning the cart sharply down the first row of abandoned cars in the parking lot. The horses overran the turn, allowing Tarah to roll onto her back on the cart’s bed, her rubber soles gripping the wet metal while Sue Spirit hung onto her backpack like an anchor.
We turned another corner and the horses caught up, but Tarah was ready this time. She pulled out her rifle and yelled to Sam: “Keep steady and I’ll take ‘em down.”
And one by one, just like the revs from the sniper spot we’d found her in, Tarah did just that. The horses bounded back onto the dirt from where they had risen, stumbling and then rolling and then sliding to a stop as though thrown across the mud by their legs. Tarah took a breath while the pouring rain pounded her face, and then another shot took down the closest, horse, which then took down two trailing behind. Then another breath and another shot…another down. Again and again, until the black herd thinned out by the smiting of Tarah’s steady hand, as though her bullets were sure shots from the divine.
Sam kept the pedal to the floor until we reached the highway we’d left earlier and when the rubber wheels connected to the concrete, we even gained some speed. But it didn’t matter if we were going ten miles an hour…we were moving away from that horrible place.
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