There were plenty of normal people, normally dressed anyway, but they didn’t get Drake’s attention. There were also a Ferris wheel, some bumper cars, and one of those rides with the spinning cups. Right now, food was all he wanted. He had enough money to get what he needed. If Bubbles was going to take them away, he wouldn’t need to beg anymore.
The first normally dressed person Drake came to, he asked, “Is this Cross Plains?”
“Yes, it is.”
Drake’s depression lifted a bit. The soreness in his skin and feet melted away. They’d finally made it.
A black man in a long, dark robe walked slowly by, nodding to the crowd and tossing plastic snakes to them, while loudly saying, “Doom, doom, doom.” He had a deep voice that was scary in spite of the fact that he wore eye makeup.
Drake got in line at the concession stand, scanning the crowd for anyone who looked like Bubbles. He’d seen her on the first season of American Hero, and was confident he could spot her easily enough. She was big, not just big like Drake, but really big. The line moved quickly and soon Drake was at the front. A man wearing a red BARBARIAN DAYS apron and a horned plastic helmet gave him a quick smile. “What can I do for you, by Crom?”
“I just need a corn dog and a Coke.”
“Small, medium, or barbarian-sized on the drink?”
“Small is okay, thanks.” Drake wanted the big drink, but he also wanted to finish up quickly and get back to Niobe.
The vendor pushed the drink and paper-wrapped feast to the edge of the wooden counter. “Six-fifty.”
Drake fished out the money and turned to walk away, but bumped into a large man. He was unsteady on his feet and his T-shirt smelled like beer.
“Sorry.” Drake quickly sidestepped him.
The man pulled a plastic sword and waved it around. “Kill your enemies. Drive them before you. Hear the lamentations of the women.”
“Okay,” Drake said, through a mouthful of corn dog. “I’m on it.”
Niobe had hated the smell of corn dogs for almost as long as she could remember. Ever since the time in fourth grade when she came down with the flu and sicked up chunks of hot dog and cornmeal under the jungle gym during recess.
Barbarian Days smelled like corn dogs, gamey turkey legs, cheap beer, sweat, and the occasional whiff of manure from an upwind feedlot. And it was hotter than hell.
“Where is she?” asked Drake.
“She’ll get here. She has to,” said Niobe. They’d been searching the crowds all afternoon. So far they’d found no sign of Michelle, or anybody else from the Committee.
Niobe wondered what Barbarian Days were like when a tank of gas didn’t cost a small mortgage and people were more inclined to travel to the middle of nowhere. There were gaps in the midway where absent rides and games of chance should have been. She hitched up her skirt again. It hid her tail as long as she kept it curled around her waist. Her tail ached; it was like having a bad kink in her neck after sleeping funny.
Drake stopped next to an overflowing trash bin buzzing with wasps. “Are you sure,” he said, retying his shoelaces, “she got the message?” He paused, watching her. “Niobe?”
She was staring at the trash bin, and the wasps. Niobe stepped closer to the bin, where the smell was stronger. “Thank God! Are we ever glad to see you.”
“Who are you talking to?” Drake asked.
“Did Michelle send you? Or the Committee?”
Drake looked back and forth between the wasps and Niobe. He looked skeptical.
“Hello? Bugsy?”
The wasps did nothing to indicate that they were anything other than wasps. Damn.
Niobe sighed. “Well, it was worth a try. Let’s get something cool and escape the sun for a while,” she said. The sno-cone booth might give them some plain ice if they asked nicely; they couldn’t afford to spend their last dollars on junk food. She could have sworn they had more cash. Drake’s appetite at work again.
The sno-cone booth was situated next to a stand selling deep-fried candy bars. They stood in line behind a five-foot-tall Conan and a six-foot Valeria. Cute couple. Niobe eavesdropped on their conversation.
“But the Jackalope is dead weight,” said Valeria. “I’ll bet the Diamonds will drop him next. They have to.”
Conan shook his head. “Jack hasn’t had a fair shake yet. He can deliver. Unlike Spin Doctor. All he does is change his hairstyle every week and hope people like it. That’s just freakin’ sad.”
Zane would have enjoyed the conversation. He’d followed the new season of American Hero as closely as living on the lam would allow, right up until he died.
The breath caught in Niobe’s chest as she thought about it. She shivered, tucked the sorrow away where she could embrace it later, and thought about what to do next.
Drake touched her elbow. “Hey. Look.” He pointed toward a row of picnic tables under a green plastic sun shade. Through the crowd Niobe glimpsed a very large woman taking up most of one bench, her back to them. She appeared to be wearing a cape. Not Michelle’s usual attire, but it made sense if she wanted to try to blend in.
Niobe took Drake’s arm and pulled him through the crowd, calling, “Michelle!” Michelle didn’t hear them.
Somebody jostled her. Drake’s arm slipped out of her fingers. Niobe turned to face a tall woman in a skintight leather bodysuit. It wouldn’t have been out of place among the other costumes, except that it covered a body much shapelier than was the norm here. Niobe wondered if the woman was a prostitute.
“Hey!” Niobe said. “Please watch where you’re going.”
The hooker tipped her head at Niobe. She flicked a waist-long black braid over her shoulder. “My apologies,” she said, and melded back into the crowd.
They made their way to the picnic tables. In addition to a cape, the overweight woman also wore plastic armor and a toy sword. She wasn’t Michelle.
“Crap,” said Drake. “Face it. She’s not coming.”
They made another round of the festival, then another. At times they glimpsed other obese women—many of the festival goers weren’t exactly small—in line for rides, or the tour of the Robert E. Howard house, but no Michelle. Drake and Niobe also cruised the midway, where the highest concentration of people lingered.
The sun was low on the horizon when Drake went to go use one of the Porta-Potties. Niobe waited for him. Here, near the toilets and Dumpsters, Barbarian Days smelled overwhelmingly of outhouses and rancid grease.
The crowd was getting louder. Rowdier. Some of these people had been swilling beer all afternoon. Meaning they probably suffered from impaired judgment.
Which gave Niobe a sad, desperate idea.
Drake returned, wiping his hands on his pants. She asked him, “Can you wait here? I want to try something.”
Drake wrinkled his nose, as he had done in Mandy’s car. “It stinks here.”
“Fine. How about you wait for me over by the Tilt-A-Whirl?” She pointed at the ride, farther down the midway. “I shouldn’t be gone long.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“To get help. I hope.”
Finding a willing partner was easier than Niobe had expected. There was no shortage of men half blitzed out of their minds who’d spent the day staring at bikini-clad women. Additionally, it was getting dark out, so by keeping to the shadows she could ensure they didn’t see her face easily. It didn’t reflect very well on the patrons of Barbarian Days, but Niobe stood in no position to judge.
She met a man calling himself Solomon. He led her behind the Dumpsters, to stand against the tall retaining fence that separated garbage from the rest of the festival.