He did not freeze or get down—he dashed away as fast as he could, bounding in a few floating clown jumps defying physics, in part to show these guys they were not in a normal situation anymore. No shots followed—only various cries of "What the fuck was that?" and a clearly growing tension.
"oh, ho ho!" came a familiar booming voice rolling across the showgrounds and stirring awake the last of the sleeping carnies. Then, a thump. Kurt attempting to break down a door? Deeby had to be holding him out this very second. The troops meanwhile just stood there, unsure what to do. Some looked outright paralyzed. An apparent leader tried and failed to make radio contact with his superiors. Equally perplexed carnies watched them from doorways, struck dumb and mute by the bizarre sight. Heavily armed tricks? That was a new one. Only the newer circus recruits understood what they saw, and in one or two of them stirred previously dead hopes of rescue from the show.
But the armed tricks had not quite figured out they were in a war zone yet. Jamie ran to the clown tent, not sure what he'd have to do to kick things off. He went to Gonko's room, opened a chest and dug around inside. Plenty of useless junk, one or two weapons . . . an antique pistol. Perfect! An old bottle of reeking moonshine. Flammable? He spilled a small puddle, lit a match, and up went a tiny ball of fire. This, he thought, will do nicely. He stuffed a rag in the bottle's neck, ran back to the shouting marines, aimed the pistol above their heads . . . Click, click. The damned thing didn't fire. He lit the rag, screamed a war cry and hurled the Molotov cocktail at the nearest formation.
One of the marines stopped, dropped, rolled as a lick of flame crawled up his pants. Jamie cursed; he'd not meant to actually hit them—just scare them. Two others opened fire in his direction, and it kicked things off better than he could have hoped.
•
In teams of four the marines ran through the showgrounds. Their shouts rang out from inside huts and caravans. Doorways were kicked down. Most carnies were too startled to fight them, but several had booby-trapped their homes once word had spread of Gonko's murderous trip through the neighborhood. A few marines fell back, clobbered by falling axe heads rigged by string webs to the tops of doors. Thus, the massacre began.
Over at the music box hut, Kurt had (as he'd have put it) "lost his temper." He did not look human any longer—sharp scales and ridges tore to shreds his tie-dyed muumuu. Yet he could still not push the door in—Deeby held it firm, muscles bulging absurdly, calling out taunts. "That all you got? Bro, you clearly lift . . . like a total bitch!" Kurt rammed the door so hard the whole hut shivered, but Deeby held it. He said, "Give it up, this is just going to embarrass you. For some reason, my girl is impressed by this kind of thing. Give me something to work with here."
Kurt swung his head toward the firing guns, screamed so loud the ground shook, then charged. He tore through a team of four marines before they had time to shut their flabbergasted mouths. But the team behind them saw what had happened to their friends, and opened fire. Bullets peppered Kurt's hide, knocking off bloodless chips like they'd shot at stone. He held a marine's corpse as a shield and backed quickly away, til he was hobbling toward the tunnel to the realm beneath.
Mugabo helped to heat things up quite literally. When a marine found the culprit cage, he yelled at those inside to freeze, and get down. The acrobats and lion tamer obeyed, but Mugabo resented it. "You freeze," he retorted, already short tempered by this latest outrage, "you geddown."
A warning shot was fired over his head. "Freeze! Get down!" a nervous marine screamed at him.
"Freeze? No thank," Mugabo snarled, splaying his fingers. "No freeze. How bout burn!" And he did just that, unleashing a torrent of fire. The troops who saw it no longer seemed to care about who, or what, they fired upon. Their formations lost order; they screamed and fired at anything moving. A thunderstorm of gunfire, and the lightning flash of muzzles engulfed the showgrounds.
Jamie hid on the roof of the clown tent, looking down on the scene through a growing cloud of smoke. His every impulse told him to flee to the surface for safety, but Shalice's words played in his mind. Even if these guys shot everyone down here, it would change nothing in the long term—the clowns would return soon enough, and Kurt had already escaped below. So he tried to watch and make sense of the confusion. By now, all the carnies were aware of their danger. A great stampede broke out, scattering all over the place, but since the way to the lift was blocked by marines (and most of the carnies had no pass-outs anyway), the crowd generally headed toward the Funhouse, just as Kurt had done. Jamie supposed that made sense—maybe it was the only place to hide. Maybe the marines would follow them down there and blast away the big bosses, the demonic things that could not stand solid reality. Would that wreck the house, as Shalice had put it? Could bullets even hurt those things?
Maybe, maybe not, but too much physical matter in their presence? Like a flood of panicked carnies, and the marines, if they followed them down there? Maybe that would hurt them . . .
And what would they do about it, those powerful but frail entities? Maybe they'd fly into a blind panic, maybe they'd run. And if they ran, maybe they'd come up that tunnel, up here into the showgrounds. In which case . . .
In which case, Jamie suddenly knew what he had to do.
•
"Am I done yet?" said Deeby. "Has your heart been won over by my ability to prevent this particular piece of wood from moving too much?"
A bullet tore through the wall. Jodi yelped as pain bit her arm, but it was just a graze from a ripped piece of wood. She had no idea what to do. Stay and hide? Run for it? Call for help? Dean might know. He'd told her what to do to bring him back. It was not easy staying in character, but she took a handkerchief and said, "Yes, my love. Let me wipe the sweat from your face."
Deeby swept her up in the crook of one arm, checked his watch impatiently as she began to rub off the makeup. He said, "Easy! You're rubbing a little hard there. Hurry up with the smooches, then we can kink it up. Whatever tasty treats I got coming, I think we can agree I've earned it."
"You have," she said, and cleaned the last of the face paint off him.
•
For several minutes Jamie tried to spot a fallen marine—it would do no good to wander around dressed as a clown. There were a few lying inert, possibly dead, but in each case their team stayed with them. Finally a group of them rushed off, chasing some fleeing carnies, white fire flashing from their guns.
He leaped, floated down, dragged the body to the shadows of the freak show, ignoring Dr. Gloom's "What'sss all thiss ruckusss?" He stripped his clothes, stripped the dead marine and put on the poorly fitting uniform, which left his navel and shins exposed. He looked more like a Mardis Gras parade marcher than an actual soldier. It might save him from any long-range fire, but up close it would be clear he was an imposter. Reluctantly he wiped off the face paint, removing the protection and power it granted him.
He ran to Shalice's hut, where Dean had left the gate pieces. Along the way bodies were slumped on the ground, torn by gunfire, and some of the homes had begun to burn. The fortuneteller's bullet-ridden body was draped over her table, and the crystal ball had been knocked to the floor. The sights barely registered. He took the gate pieces over his shoulders, and headed to the Funhouse. Some gunfire barked out, but it was muffled, which he knew meant some of them had probably dropped down the tunnel in pursuit of fleeing carnies. Others waited at the tunnel's top.
"Get down there!" the apparent commanding officer yelled, followed by a string of numbers and letters Jamie could make no sense of. A burst of black smoke wafted up the opening. "Go!" the leader screamed. Down went the rest of the marines, their leader taking the rear. Cries and gunfire carried up soon after.