The nicest touch this season, though, was the Valley of the Living Dead trap. This was a new one, and was Crow’s pride and joy. Just past the halfway point of the hayride, the tractor would pull the flatbed through a patch of mud. The mud was only surface muck kept wet by a sprinkler system, but in the darkness it looked real enough to create the illusion that the tractor had become hopelessly mired. Coop, or whoever was driving, would ease the tractor into neutral and just gun the engine, growling and swearing (in a thoroughly PG manner, of course) at the predicament. While all this was going on, dark shapes would begin to move in the bushes near the flatbed. These dark shapes would slowly — very slowly — advance on the flatbed. They were white-faced, decaying corpses, slouching and shuffling with all the gracelessness of reanimated bodies. It would be a race to see if Coop could unmire the tractor and get them on their way before the legions of walking dead could reach the flatbed.
Of course, timing was everything. Coop would get “unstuck,” but just a moment too late. The ghouls would manage to reach the flatbed and would, amid a chorus of ungodly screams, drag one poor soul off into the bushes. The screams would be truly terrifying, and as the flatbed was towed away, the stricken survivors would look back and see ghouls staggering away nibbling on an arm or a leg or a string of intestines.
As a set piece, it was a corker. The tourists, especially the ones who had never been to a haunted hayride before, were stunned to a stricken silence. Until, of course, the next monsters leaped out at them. The “victim” was a staffer posing as a tourist, and the victim was changed almost every day so that repeat customers could never tell who was going to fall prey to the living dead.
There were other traps as well, but the Valley of the Living Dead was the star attraction on the Hayride, and had even been written up in Sci-Fi Universe and Fangoria magazines, as well as every newspaper on the East Coast. When it came to producing genuine horrible thrills, Crow was a genius, albeit a twisted one with a penchant for very dark humor.
Now that twisted genius was skimming along on his ATV. He stopped periodically to tell the staffers that the ride was closing down. He told the Creature from the Black Lagoon to cut across the swamp and let the Pod People know. He sent the Wolfman and the Brainiac down through the gully to bring in the Mole People, the Headsman, and the Flying Monkeys. He had Jack the Ripper go back to the shed for another ATV and sent him heading backward along the path of the ride to tell the Vampire Children and the Bog Beasts to stand down.
Ten minutes later he caught up with the tractor just as Henry Pitts was being dragged into the bushes by the ghouls. Crow honked his horn and flashed his headlights off and on. The ghouls straightened from their bloody feast, and Henry sat up, too, amazingly unhurt despite the entrails dripping from the mouths of the zombies.
Coop killed the engine of the tractor and the Valley of the Living Dead grew quiet except for a faint buzz of inquiring voices.
Dismounting, Crow walked over to the tractor and looked up at Coop.
“Hey…what’s going on?” Coop asked. He was a middle-aged man with a paunch, loose jowls, and a look of almost total stupidity.
Crow turned to face the mass of confused and semifrightened tourists. “Folks, I have some bad news. Because of severe technical difficulties beyond our control, we are going to have to close down the Haunted Hayride for tonight.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the chorus of groans. “Everyone will receive a full refund, plus a free coupon good for any night you wish to return. Mr. Wolfe regrets having to do this, but as I said, it is beyond our control.”
“What’s the deal, man?” someone asked.
Relying on the speech he’d rehearsed all the way over, Crow said, “There is a bridge just a half mile ahead. It has buckled and won’t take the weight of the tractor. We are going to have to turn around and go back. There’s just no way that the tractor can go any farther forward in safety. I’m sure you all understand.”
From the moans, groans, and curses, it seemed they not only didn’t understand, they damned well didn’t like it, but they were also resigned. Crow had affected the attitude of “someone in charge” and it really left no room for argument.
Thunder rumbled overhead and lightning danced through the clouds. A few wet raindrops fell, not many, but enough to dampen any further arguments.
Crow called Coop down from the tractor seat and climbed up himself, and with very little to-do, he pulled the tractor free from the “mud,” angled over onto the clearing near the road, and turned around. The tourists, some of them still standing in postures of indignation or disappointment, continued to grumble, but said nothing directly to Crow. The Ghouls, and the late Henry Pitts, stood to one side and waited, then climbed up onto the flatbed as it passed. Coop, looking disconsolate, followed on the ATV.
Crow gave the tractor some gas and picked up speed. Usually the ride through the dark farmlands and forest was done at little more than a walking pace, slow enough for the spooky shadows under the trees to get the customers in the proper frame of mind for the beasties to scare the hell out of them every couple hundred yards. Crow tooled along at a respectable thirty miles an hour, slowing only to embark a few wandering creatures of the night.
The job, the great and important mission assigned to him by Terry Wolfe, had been accomplished so quickly and easily that Crow almost felt a twinge of disappointment. Not that he wanted any kind of trouble, but the thought of real-life monsters out there had pumped him full of adrenaline, and now he was fidgety.
Back in the office, he supervised the return of the cash and the handing out of rain checks. He also found a moment to take Coop and some of the older monsters aside and tell them about what was happening in town. They were all suitably impressed.
“Okay,” he summed up, “here’s what I want to happen. Rigger, you and Bailey make sure all of the customers get to their cars. Give the usual spiel about keeping windows and doors locked, not picking up strangers, and driving with headlights and seat belts on. Tom and Del, you two work the road with flashlights and make sure everybody gets onto the right side of the road. Not like last October. We don’t want any fender benders tonight. Okay? The rest of you, close down the buildings, lock everything up, and report back to Coop. Coop, I want you to do a roll call. No, don’t look at me like that. I want everyone accounted for before you leave. Everyone goes on the buddy system. Even if you have to take a leak, bring your buddy to shake it for you. No one, and I mean no one, works alone or drives home alone. If you came in separate cars, then follow your buddy home. These are really bad guys out there, kids, so let’s not get stupid. Let’s shut ’er down and go home.”
Which is exactly what they did.
While all of this was happening, Crow strolled over to the main office, where Barney was helping count the cash.
“Hey, where’s Mike Sweeney?”
Barney looked up and Crow could see the residual shock in the young man’s eyes. “His, um, folks came and got him right after you left.”
Crow searched his face. “What happened?”
Barney looked around to make sure no one else was close enough to hear, then in a hushed voice told Crow what had happened.
Crow stared at him, eyes hard and angry, mouth a tight line. He said nothing.
Barney shook his head. “And people come here to see monsters.”
Chapter 15