Greg felt in the snow his fallen eyeglasses and put them back on his nose. Then, having sat astride the belly of the dying enemy, he clasped the knife handle with both hands, raised them high over his head and plunged the knife into the naked breast. The body under him convulsively jerked and uttered one more rattling. The boy with an effort pulled out his knife and struck once again. And then again, and again, and again…
Then there were policemen running through snow, led by sergeant Jills; and two strangers in FBI jackets; and a doctor who hastily examined and palpated him right on the scene and clicked his tongue with astonishment, looking at the red-and-white corpse; and mum who nearly fainted and to whom several voices simultaneously hastily explained that the boy was unscathed and all this blood was not his; and some guys with a microphone and a videocam at whom all others shouted and tried to banish them, while they shouted back about the right of Americans to the information…
Blood was cleaned off Greg (at least as much as possible on the first try ), and they embraced him, squeezed, tapped on his shoulder, shook his hands and all the time spoke, saying that everything was OK, that everything would be OK now, that he was a good brave boy, that he had done perfectly well and that he shouldn’t blame himself for the death of this man because he was a very-very bad man who had killed many children already…
Gregory Prime didn’t listen to all this chatter. He understood the main thing—the real Santa Claus does not exist and so harmony returned to his soul at last. The pleasant feeling of this harmony was only amplified by two circumstances. First, his plane, his battle trophy, which miraculously wasn’t harmed during the fight—and whatever one may say, the bomber was excellent. And secondly, while lovingly moving his finger on its wings and fuselage, he continued recalling how warm blood fountained from his enemy’s throat, how his groans choked with rattle, how the knife elastically stuck into the hated body and how it, clamped by Greg’s legs, convulsed under the blows…
Fake Santa was right—he liked it.
Oh yes, he really liked it.
CAVE OF HORROR
“A carnival is in town,” joyfully exclaimed Jane.
Mike received this news without any enthusiasm. Even in his childhood he hadn’t been a fan of carnival rides, especially those that fling their passengers upside down, back and forth, and in other bone-rattling directions. Once, when his classmates dared him to go for a spin on a roller coaster, he very painfully hit his tailbone in the bottom point of the trajectory. There were, of course, calmer rides but Mike found them just boring; actually, usually only little kids rode them. Even an early age he preferred playing board games or assembling model cars or airplanes to visiting an amusement park. All the more he didn’t see any sense in visiting a carnival now, at his respectable age of twenty-two.
His girlfriend, alas, had the opposite point of view. And therefore, having indifferently muttered in reply, “So what?” Mike already knew perfectly well what was coming next.
“Let’s go there Saturday!” Jane met his expectations.
“Maybe we could go to the movies instead?” Mike offered without any real hope.
“We always go to the movies. And besides, what’s playing? Are they showing anything interesting this week?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t looked yet. Maybe something good is on.”
“I’m sure they’re showing the same old junk. Mikey, don’t be so boring! I want to go to the carnival! We can go to the movies anytime, but the carnival is here for only a little while.”
“Where are they from?”
“Dunno. From somewhere far away. They must have rides we’ve never been on!”
“Aha, that’s it—‘from far away.’ These traveling carnivals are even worse than stationary amusement parks. In each new place they put together all these rides, then take them apart them again. As a result, at some point something becomes loose, a screw isn’t tightened and… Last year the newspapers reported there was an accident on a ride in Connecticut. Three people were injured and about twenty more dangled on the very top for two hours, waiting until they could be rescued from there.”
“So what, traffic accidents happen much more often—does that mean we shouldn’t drive cars?”
“If we don’t go by car, we’ll have to go on foot. But if we don’t climb on some doubtful rotating machinery, we can spend the money for something better.”
“Just admit that you are afraid,” Jane continued to badger him. “And not of accidents. You’re afraid of the rides!”
“Why do you say I’m afraid? I simply don’t understand what pleasure it is to dangle upside down…”
“Well, don’t ride with me. Just stand nearby and wait if you are such a little coward,” she affectedly sighed. “You can hold my purse.”
“Listen to you being all brave!” Mike lost his patience. “Remember our trip to New York? You dragged me to Coney Island and there—to those, what were they called—‘Air races’ with airplanes that flipped over… And who was vomiting even before that ride stopped?”
“I shouldn’t have eaten those cakes before I got on the ride,” Jane waved away his complaint. “And I took it into account for the future. But does it mean that I should stay off rides the rest of my life because I got sick once?”
Mike had understood from the very beginning that resistance was useless and, as one could expect, two days later—11 a.m. Saturday—he and Jane entered the carnival area, which was enclosed by a high chain link fence.
Long ago in this not too cozy suburban place had been a meat factory combined with a slaughterhouse; however business was bad and it eventually burned out in the most literal sense: one night it was destroyed by flames. There was gossip that the fire had been set either by some animal rights fanatics or by the factory owner himself who decided to cash in at least on the insurance. It was also rumored that there were several casualties, though only one was known for sure—the night watchman. Possibly, rumors were promoted by the large number of charred bones found in the ashes—which was no wonder, considering the type of factory it had been. The burned-out buildings were beyond repair and for a time, despite the fence and strict “keep out” signs, they remained an attractive place for the town’s boys who were looking for adventure, creepy stories and dismal souvenirs like chains and meat hooks or the aforementioned charred bones—until one of these boys fell down into the basement and broke his backbone. His friends were frightened and ran away and the boy lay there in dirty ice-cold water for almost a day before the search began. When he was finally rescued, he was still alive and conscious—but the way he looked made even hard-boiled police officers shudder: while the kid was lying there paralyzed and helpless, rats gnawed his face and almost completely chewed off his fingers.
What became of the ill-fated boy was unclear. Some said that he died in the hospital of blood poisoning. Others said that doctors saved him, but, as they added, mournfully shaking their heads, “It would have been better for him if he had died, much better.” It was known for sure only that soon after his accident his family left town.
This terrible story—and the mass outrage of the town’s parents caused by it—made the city authorities demolish the scorched ruins at last. The grounds remained vacant for many years, enclosed by a chain link fence; the tin plates fastened to it which promised a penalty for trespassing and for garbage dumping rusted and peeled off so badly that their stern warnings became almost unreadable. Several times the site was offered for sale, but the town’s businessmen, knowing its history, weren’t eager to set up their businesses there. Over the years, however, the gloomy story of the meat factory was remembered less and less and many young people of the new generation, including Jane (who had just reached her eighteenth birthday), never even heard about it. And now, apparently, the grounds were leased to the traveling carnival.