Almost involuntarily, Justin tried to get up from his chair and intervene, but strong, eel-like arms thrust him back down. He was going to shout something in protest, but doubted that he’d be heard over the celebratory din, or heeded if he was. Frantic, he looked to the Old Man, who was watching, mouth agape, and pleaded.
“Mr. Lampert, please,” he said feelingly. “If you can, you have to do something! Don’t let him do this!”
“Yeah, guess yer right,” said Lampert, nodding. Shakily, he levered himself up from his seat and, unimpeded by the freaks, walked over to the madman and his victim. Sweating, his breath coming in gasps, Justin watched.
“Hey, kid!” said Lampert, getting King Suit’s attention. The man paused from his bizarre dance and looked at the Old Man. The woman tied to the post stopped struggling and also watched. Casually, Lampert took out a cigarette, lit it, and used it for emphasis as he spoke.
“Whatcha doin’, here?” he asked. “What kinda party game is this?”
“Oh, it’s not a game, Grandpa,” smiled Johnson strangely. “That’s for later! These are my Birthday Presents! And since it’s my birthday and since I get to decide and since they’re such lovely presents, I just have to open them! Hee hee! Open them up, see what’s inside!”
“Jeez, I dunno, kid,” said Lampert reasonably. “Ain’t that gonna make a helluva mess? I mean, all that packing and wrappings and ribbons and all? Gonna get all over the place, ain’t it? You don’t want some big mess, doya?”
King Suit seemed to think about it, but it was hard to tell; maybe he was just zoning out again. But then he looked at Lampert, refocused, and grinned horribly.
“Don’t worry, Grandpa,” he said. “My friends will clean it up! They always like to help!”
With that, the madman raised and then slashed the knife across the captive woman’s exposed throat. Justin cringed and looked away, vaguely seeing the shocked faces of his companions as the chamber swam in his vision, but even over the hoots and clapping he could hear the appalling sound of splashing liquid. And then chopping, hacking noises, accompanied by savage screams of insane laughter from Johnson.
Feeling as though he might faint, throw up, or go stark raving mad (maybe all three), Justin saw that his companions were just as horrified. Cass was very pale, holding one hand over her mouth, and Erin was actually puking, doubled over in her seat. Teresa just looked angry. Very, very angry.
Not at all wanting to, Justin turned and looked back at the horrible scene. Ignored, Mr. Lampert had taken a seat among the freaks nearby, his chin disconsolately on his chest. The madman Johnson was now kneeling before the flayed, eviscerated, chopped-up corpse of the woman, scooping up little puddles of blood and wiping them on his face. In the harsh light, the hallucinatory decorations, and the assembled, jeering throng of misshapen beasts, it was a tableau straight out of Hell.
Justin felt gorge rise in his throat and a nightmarish dread at the sheer savagery of the murder. This man wasn’t just dangerous, he was absolutely lethal. And if he was capable of this, what might he do next? Surely he’d get around to “opening” Justin and the others soon enough. Again, bile rose in his throat but he swallowed hard and kept it down.
The world itself, or at least Justin’s part in it, suddenly teetered on its access and threatened to spin off into the void. Despair, a sense that nothing in the whole world meant anything anymore, a crushing realization of life’s futility and its gross, animal nature washed over him like a flow of lava. What kind of world were they living in? What had become of Humanity? Was this the fate of their species, degeneration to madness and murder? To pray on each other, to see each other as objects, to be used, expended, at the whim of the insane and the powerful? And if this was the fate of humanity, did he want any part in it? Or any part in saving it? Maybe Mr. Lampert wasn’t so wrong after all. Maybe, if this was its destiny, humanity did deserve to die off. Maybe, if all that was left were madmen and violent predators, extinction wasn’t such a terrible thing.
After all, what had they encountered, merely trying to get from one place to another, here in the world of After? What had become of the people who’d survived? Where they all destined to become evangelical cannibals, homicidal maniacs, and brutal, casually violent thugs, killing and enslaving each other? And more to the point, did a butt-end, ignorant, violent, self-consuming remnant of a species such as this really deserve to live? Maybe they should all just give up and join Johnson, take their places in the Dance of Death and bathe in the blood of their fellow man. Just give up, jump onto the funeral pyre, and put an end to all of the pain and struggle and madness. It would be a lot easier.
But then, for no obvious reason, the face of Baron Zero loomed up in his mind’s eye. Fuzzy, smiling, bespectacled, honest, friendly and sharply intelligent, the image somehow made him feel a little bit better. Maybe if there was one such leader, one such light in the darkness, there were others. Maybe there was still a spark of humanity after all. Maybe there were some who didn’t want to dance. Grimly, like a wrestler facing a stronger opponent, he took control of his thoughts and emotions as best he could and tried to pay attention to what was happening.
“Holy shit, Doc,” came the Old Man’s voice. He’d tottered back to the head table and now, pale and shaking, spoke past the big tentacle-armed guard. “This motherfucker is out there! What the fuck are we gonna do? Shit, even I don’t wanna get carved up by this nut job down here in this fucking stinking hole! We gotta do something!”
“I’m,” Justin swallowed, “uh, open to suggestions.”
“Rush him, I say,” said Teresa darkly. “Get my hands on his neck.”
Justin shook his head. “No,” he said, feeling almost disembodied. “Don’t do that. These people would have you in a second.”
“Then what?” said Lampert. For the first time Justin could recall, there was real fear in the Old Man’s reedy voice. “What are we gonna do?”
Justin tried to think, but his mind was like a bicycle on an icy street and he couldn’t get any traction. What should they do? Tangentially, he saw that Erin was done throwing up and was now sitting, blank-faced and empty-eyed like a catatonic and that Barb Cass had lowered her head to the table as if she was taking a little nap. What should they do?
Then Teresa grabbed his arm, fairly painfully, and snapped him back to reality.
“Hey!” she whispered urgently. “Over there, behin’ that pole!”
“What?” said Justin, utterly lost. “What are you talking about?”
“That kid!” she said, staring at something over Justin’s shoulder. He was about to turn around to see what she was blathering about—what kid?—when she jerked him back. “No, don’t look,” she said. “You give him away.”
“What,” Justin managed, tires spinning on the ice. “Who?”
“She’s right, Doc!” said the Old Man, looking in the same direction. “I mean, I never met this Kid of yours, but it’s either that or one scrunty-ass little mutant.”
Something like understanding came to Justin; one of his tires hit a dry spot. The Kid. Yes, the little boy they’d come here with. Of course, how could he forget? But he’d disappeared, gone away. What was he doing here? He very much wanted to turn and see what was happening, but Teresa held him in place with her eyes.
“What’s going on?” he hissed.
Teresa, staring intently, whispered back: “OK, he like, mixed in with the freaks. Wearin’ a doopy hat an’ that. Like a dis-guise, hey?”
“Yes, yes?” prodded Justin, both wheels suddenly taking purchase. “And what’s he doing?”