I stare into the distance. A fly lands on my hand. I flick it away. “What about the others?”
“They survived. A couple moped off, and the rest caught up.” His eyes sweep from side to side. “Bill’s one of them.”
“What are they going to do?” I ask.
“He didn’t say,” says Grady. “But one way or another, they’re taking Uncle Al down. I aim to help if I can.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“To give you a chance to steer clear. You were a pal to Camel, and we won’t forget that.” He leans forward so his chest is pressed against the table. “Besides,” he continues quietly, “it seems to me you’ve got a lot to lose right now.”
I look up sharply. He’s staring right into my eyes, one eyebrow cocked.
Oh God. He knows. And if he knows, everyone knows. We’ve got to leave now, this very minute.
Thunderous applause explodes from the big top, and the band slides seamlessly into the Gounod waltz. I turn toward the menagerie. It’s a reflex, because Marlena is either preparing to mount or else is already astride Rosie’s head.
“I’ve got to go,” I say.
“Sit,” says Grady. “Eat. If you’re thinking of clearing out, it may be a while before you see food again.”
He plants his elbows on the rough gray wood of the table and picks up his burger.
I stare at mine, wondering if I can choke it down.
I reach for it, but before I can pick it up the music crashes to a halt. There’s an ungodly collision of brass that finishes with a cymbal’s hollow clang. It wavers out of the big top and across the lot, leaving nothing in its wake.
Grady freezes, crouched over his burger.
I look from left to right. No one moves a muscle—all eyes point at the big top. A few wisps of hay swirl lazily across the hard dirt.
“What is it? What’s going on?” I ask.
“Shh,” Grady says sharply.
The band starts up again, this time playing “Stars and Stripes Forever.”
“Oh Christ. Oh shit,” Grady jumps up and backward, knocking over the bench.
“What? What is it?”
“The Disaster March!” he shouts, turning and bolting.
Everyone associated with the show is barreling toward the big top. I dismount the bench and stand behind it, stunned, not understanding. I jerk around to the fry cook, who struggles with his apron. “What the hell’s he talking about?” I shout.
“The Disaster March,” he says, wrestling the apron over his head. “It means something’s gone bad—real bad.”
Someone thumps my shoulder as he passes. It’s Diamond Joe. “Jacob—it’s the menagerie,” he screams over his shoulder. “The animals are loose. Go, go, go!”
He doesn’t need to tell me twice. As I approach the menagerie, the ground rumbles beneath my feet and it scares the hell out of me because it’s not noise. It’s motion, the vibration of hooves and paws on hard dirt.
I throw myself through the flap and then immediately up against the sidewall as the yak thunders past, his crooked horn just inches from my chest. A hyena clings to his back, its eyes spinning in terror.
I’m facing a full-fledged stampede. The animal dens are all open, and the center of the menagerie is a blur; staring into it, I see bits of chimp, orangutan, llama, zebra, lion, giraffe, camel, hyena, and horse—in fact, I see dozens of horses, including Marlena’s, and every one of them is mad with terror. Creatures of every sort zigzag, bolt, scream, swing, gallop, grunt, and whinny; they are everywhere, swinging on ropes and slithering up poles, hiding under wagons, pressed against sidewalls, and skidding across the center.
I scan the tent for Marlena and instead see a panther slide through the connection into the big top. As its lithe, black body disappears, I brace myself. It takes several seconds to come, but come it does—one prolonged scream, followed by another, and then another, and then the whole place explodes with the thunderous sound of bodies shoving past other bodies and off the stands.
Please God let them leave by the back end. Please God don’t let them try to come through here.
Beyond the roiling sea of animals, I catch sight of two men. They’re swinging ropes, stirring the animals into an ever-higher frenzy. One of them is Bill. He catches my gaze and holds it for a moment. Then he slips into the big top with the other man. The band screeches to a halt again and this time stays silent.
My eyes sweep the tent, desperate to the point of panic. Where are you? Where are you? Where the hell are you?
I catch sight of pink sequins and my head jerks around. When I see Marlena standing beside Rosie, I cry out in relief.
August is in front of them—of course he is, where else would he be? Marlena’s hands cover her mouth. She hasn’t seen me yet, but Rosie has. She stares at me long and hard, and something about her expression stops me cold. August is oblivious—red-faced and bellowing, flapping his arms and swinging his cane. His top hat lies in the straw beside him, punctured, as though he’d put a foot through it.
Rosie stretches out her trunk, reaching for something. A giraffe passes between us, its long neck bobbing gracefully even in panic, and when it’s gone I see that Rosie has pulled her stake from the ground. She holds it loosely, resting its end on the hard dirt. The chain is still attached to her foot. She looks at me with bemused eyes. Then her gaze shifts to the back of August’s bare head.
“Oh Jesus,” I say, suddenly understanding. I stumble forward and bounce off a horse’s passing haunch. “Don’t do it! Don’t do it!”
She lifts the stake as though it weighs nothing and splits his head in a single clean movement—ponk—like cracking a hardboiled egg. She continues to hold the stake until he topples forward, and then she slides it almost lazily back into the earth. She takes a step backward, revealing Marlena, who may or may not have seen what just happened.
Almost immediately a herd of zebras passes in front of them. Flailing human limbs flash between pounding black and white legs. Up and down, a hand, a foot, twisting and bouncing bonelessly. When the herd passes, the thing that was August is a tangled mass of flesh, innards, and straw.
Marlena stares at it, wide-eyed. Then she crumples to the ground. Rosie fans her ears, opens her mouth, and steps sideways so she’s standing directly over the top of Marlena.
Although the stampede continues unabated, at least I know Marlena won’t be trampled before I can navigate the perimeter of the tent.
INEVITABLY, PEOPLE TRY to exit the big top the way they entered it—through the menagerie. I’m kneeling beside Marlena, cradling her head in my hands when people spew forth from the connection. They are a few feet in before they realize what’s going on.
The ones at the front come to a dead stop and are flung to the ground by the people behind them. They would be trampled except that the people behind them have now also seen the stampede.
The mass of animals suddenly changes direction, an interspecies flock—lions, llamas, and zebras running side by side with orangutans and chimps; a hyena shoulder to shoulder with a tiger. Twelve horses and a giraffe with a spider monkey hanging from its neck. The polar bear, lumbering on all fours. And all of them headed for the knot of people.
The crowd turns, shrieking, and trying to recede into the big top. The people at the very back, shoved so recently to the ground, dance in desperation, pounding the backs and shoulders of the people in front of them. The clog bursts free, and people and animals flee together in a great squealing mass. It’s hard to say who is more terrified—certainly the only thing any of the animals have in mind is saving their own hides. A Bengal tiger forces itself between a woman’s legs, sweeping her from the ground. She looks down and faints. Her husband grabs her by the armpits, lifting her off the tiger and dragging her into the big top.