The Night Sheriff, page 2
Normally I would just swoop in from behind them and put the girl to sleep, but I want her away from this fellow. I must’ve muttered something to that effect out loud, because Punch-Press nods. “We can do that, Old Tool. You get that chain on her wrist cut, and we’ll have her a hundred feet away in three seconds.” Gremlins are not known for boasting or exaggeration (unless they’re talking about gear ratios, and then they just can’t help themselves), so I must assume he knows what he’s talking about, but cutting the chain will be easier said than done. It is steel, one of the metals most resistant to mystical influence. Punch-Press seems to read my mind (though I don’t think he can actually do that), and hands me a small bolt cutter. I consider it, and the germ of a plan comes to me.
A minute later, I rise from behind a two-dimensional mountain. I will try to talk to this fellow in a calm and sensible manner at first. I can always kill him. The last thing I want at this point is panic, so the two humans see a tall, thin man of indeterminate age, wearing a long multilayered brown coat, a wide, flat brim hat, and an employee badge.
After seeing a rather unflattering picture of myself in the 1970s in some ridiculous Fortean magazine article, I have made it a practice to consciously change my appearance every couple of years. It is a nuisance to keep myself abreast of acceptable fashions, but I refuse to try to scare ne’er-do-wells while wearing bellbottoms. Being caught on camera is something I had to come to terms with decades ago, and I am probably the most photographed “imaginary creature” in history. If that’s to be the case, then at least I will look good. “Hello, young fellow, young lady,” I call out. “I think you might be lost.”
They stare at me. I raise my hands to show that they are empty, and I give them a friendly, closemouthed smile. Oh, look how harmless I am!
Disappointment. Impatience. Rage. These are the emotions that seethe through the young man, and they are not the reactions I expected. He grabs the little girl and holds her before him. I freeze.
“I don’t want you. I’ve come to face the Demon,” he growls.
It’s never good when you can hear the capital letters. “I’m afraid I don’t understand—”
He cuts me off cold by shaking the little girl. “The monster that stalks this godless place. Zenonland. The one your corporate masters allow to feed off the unsuspecting.”
How does he know I exist? Although I must take exception with that whole “feed off the unsuspecting” nonsense. I mean, it’s technically true, but the way he puts it makes it sound like a bad thing.
He continues. “I have been charged by an agent of the Almighty! I must face this monster! Bring him to me or—” His hand gently encircles the little girl’s throat.
I shrug off the first layer of glamour and look significantly less human. “I am here,” I growl.
The fear pouring off the girl actually raises a notch, poor thing, but there is no fear at all from the young man, which is unnatural. Believe me, I know. No, he now feels a sense of triumph. Of imminent fulfillment tempered with a growing sense of … wait … is that disappointment? What? Am I not monstrous enough for him? I like this less and less. “I am here,” I repeat. “Now release the girl.”
“Nooo,” he muses as he looks me over, “I don’t think you’re what I’m looking for at all. That which I seek is grander than you. I seek the true evil at the heart of this place. I’ll keep this pawn right here.”
“You cannot keep her from me,” I growl as I step forward, and he scoots the girl behind him, while continuing to look at me. Perfect. This allows Bone Cat to pop up and snap the bolt cutter closed on the chain between the man and the girl. It parts with a faint click. Faint, but loud enough that this fellow hears it and spins around ready to grab the girl—only to see her drop out of sight through the floor. The gremlins have done their job.
He spins back and finds me standing before him. He stares up into my face and begins to stammer out some prayer. I ignore it and fully dismiss the glamour. I savor the look on his face when he realizes that what he is seeing is neither mask nor makeup. Sometimes I tailor their perceptions a bit, make myself look more like whatever nemesis is ensconced within their own head. But this fellow doesn’t need that extra effort. I am sufficient.
He screams so hard and for so long that I worry that he’ll pass out, which is always time-consuming. But, thankfully, his survival instincts take over and tell him that he has to shut up and run. I lazily unfold an arm and grab hold of his outfit. Again he screams, but my grip is like iron, and I begin, leisurely, to draw him up towards me. Then—then the fear pours off of him. Great waves of it breaking against me. I almost close my eyes to savor it, as it has been so long since I’ve felt such a rich, raw fear. But no, as I have discovered by watching several television shows devoted to cooking and cuisine, visual presentation and the appreciation thereof really does enhance the dining experience.
I read him, skittering across his mind. Oh, I can’t read his thoughts, per se—and thank goodness for that—but the impressions and emotions I get are messy enough. He is different from the usual sweepings of rapists, kidnappers, and pedophiles I’m allowed to harvest. No, this fellow sees himself as some sort of … of holy warrior. One who volunteered to perform some great noble sacrifice in order to destroy a greater evil, which is presumably myself. Well, it takes all types, I suppose.
The crazy doesn’t stop me from relishing the experience. The way his eyes roll up into his head. The way his lips pull away from his teeth. The frantic gyrations, which add a most comical touch. It is delightfully perfect, and indeed even better than I had expected, as, when I grin, revealing my beautiful teeth, the fellow’s heart breaks apart. He dies of fear, within my grasp, inches from my face. This is a rare feast indeed, and I feel the empty places in my body filling up with that exquisite energy that sustains me and helps me keep body and soul together. Well, mine, anyway. His soul drains outward from the still-twitching meat. I languidly ensnare it and examine it with the same air I recognize in human connoisseurs examining a wine bottle they have recently emptied. It ripples and strains within my grasp, mewling in terror at its immobility. This does not bother me, as a little suffering is good for it. A tired epigram to be sure, but one that I can assure you is quite accurate, at least the way I do it. Let me see …
A young soul. Hardly surprising, old souls are usually too experienced to get caught up in religious nonsense like this. Absolutism requires inexperience in order to survive. Time to begin rectifying that.
I send a claw deep within the seed of self that desperately wants to move on, and I send it the scariest message I can, under the circumstances. “If I catch you doing this again, it’ll be even worse.” This produces a final jolt of ethereal terror, light and crisp, without all those meaty glands to back it up, like the memory of a perfect dollop of sherbet at the end of a splendid repast. Delightful. I mentally unflex—and it’s gone, squealing away into the æther. And while I am standing there like a self-satisfied ninny, his coat falls open, and I see the explosives. My start of recognition is great enough that his hand, which had been clutching what I belatedly recognize as a dead man’s switch, relaxes its grip …
And the world goes white.
It was not a terribly large explosion, as these things go, and I can desolidify myself pretty quickly, but still, when I come to, it is to discover myself plastered in a relatively thin layer against a shattered wall. How tiresome. I metaphorically grit my teeth and begin pulling myself together. I pause to rest and see Punch-Press sitting on a smoking puppet, talking to Bone Cat. Neither looks very happy. When they see that I am coming around, Bone Cat, at least, looks relieved. Punch-Press scowls. I can understand his feelings and try not to take it personally. The gremlins are responsible for the maintenance of the Happiness Machine, and I must assume, because they are cantankerous creatures, that since I am the lone survivor, they will blame me for this.
I make a final effort and assume a reasonable semblance of humanity. My ears finish reforming, and I can hear noises from the outside. The shouts of the park staff, the cheers and hollers of a crowd that has gotten an impromptu fireworks show, and—
The music. The music has stopped.
Punch-Press sees my realization. “At least a quarter of the mechanism is blown to shit. That moron managed to fuck up everything. He couldn’t have picked a better spot if he’d tried.” He ran a hand down his long nose. “Beginner’s luck,” he said with a grudging admiration. Gremlins still appreciate a nice bit of sabotage.
“The girl?”
Punch-Press waves a hand. “She’s fine. We dropped her forty feet and caught her in the Number Three Drenching Tank.” He shook his head. “She seems to think this is all a dream or something.” I can easily believe it. I have seen the Gremlin’s underground lairs, illuminated by their furnaces and forges, swarming with hundreds of small green bodies that you think are industriously laboring away within clouds of steam and sparks until you realize that they’re actually singing and dancing and frolicking. Not that they aren’t laboring, but they see no reason why they cannot do both at once. The simplest way to explain it is to just say that they really like their work.
Punch-Press continues, “A bunch of the third shift got injured, but nobody too seriously, and nobody died.” He kicks a tattered bundle of rags. “Except for Captain Suicide here.”
“Does anyone outside the ride know that he was in here? That he had grabbed the girl?”
He shook his head. “Nah. If she has parents here, they’re still outside.”
This is not unreasonable. Many of our older guests elect to sit out rides they have experienced a dozen times already. But they will be frantic. I rise to my feet and sway a bit. I’ll sleep well tonight. “Bring me the girl and bag up our bomber. I’ll pick him up later this evening.” I look around again at the destruction. “Surely your people saw this coming. Why didn’t you—?”
“We didn’t see shit,” Punch-Press snarled. “This didn’t show up at all.”
This is surprising. After the war, the Gremlins tried to figure out where everything had gone wrong. They decided that they would never have gotten into that particular predicament if they could have seen into the future, and so they built a device that lets them do that.
Gremlins deal with problems differently.
Oh, it’s not a perfect system, of course. I’m told there are too many random variables taking place from minute to minute to be able to determine things like horse races, lottery numbers, or what you’ll say at ten o’clock next Tuesday, but more general things can be foretold with uncanny accuracy. Over the years it has proved remarkably useful, which is why this lapse is so disturbing.
Punch-Press points an accusatory finger at me. “But how did this clown get a bomb into the park in the first place?”
That is a very good question. The security people at the gates don’t bother with the modern fad for high-tech security theatrics. They just smile and apologize and paw through everything that comes through the gates the old-fashioned way. It seems inefficient, but a properly motivated and well-paid human being is infinitely more sophisticated than any machine. This is one of areas where the Zenon Corporation does not stint, and on a busy day, there can easily be several hundred security screeners. This diligence has paid off, as there has never been an incident involving weapons in the park. Until now.
I shoot an inquiring look at Bone Cat, who knows what I want. “Death is no longer here.” That’s something at least.
Several minutes later, outside the ride, a shout of recognition causes two frantic parents to whip around in time so that the little girl cannons into their open arms. After a round of hugs and recriminations, they realize they are not alone. As usual, even though they are looking at me, they are more fixated upon Bone Cat, who is leaning against my leg, with a smug grin upon his face. “I’m guessing you’re Delores’s parents,” I say.
“What happened?” the father shouts at me. He is upset. He is not alone in this, and this is understandable. Many people are listening. The Happiness Machine has smoke pouring from its roof, and even as we stand there, a section collapses in on itself, causing the crowd to scream and surge backwards. And a surprisingly substantial crowd it is, even though the parade can still be heard thumping and booming from beyond the Zeppelin pens.
I address not just him, but the surrounding crowd. “There was a gas leak, I’m afraid. We don’t know how it happened … yet. Luckily, one of our staff members realized what was happening, and he got your little girl to safety.” I raised my hands to forestall any questions. “He’s fine, and no one else got hurt, but the Zenon Corporation and I, personally, wish to apologize most sincerely to you and your family. I hope you will accept this small token of our desire to make up for the scare—” I produce the ultimate goodwill incentive: Free Lifetime Passes.
The crowd around us ooohs in appreciation, while the man himself is shocked into silence. He gingerly takes the three slips of cardboard and examines them with justifiable suspicion, but they are quite legit, as he will discover when he presents them to the main office in order to be registered.
I continue. “I must say, sir, ma’am, that your Delores is a mighty brave little gal. She followed our man’s directions and saved everyone a lot of trouble.”
This is indeed what Delores would remember. The whole family thanks Bone Cat and I effusively and hurries off, marveling at how real my companion looked. They are ecstatic over their new treasure, and I am instantly forgotten, as I should be.
I then spend the rest of the evening helping the staff herd the gawkers away from the smoldering building as the safety barriers are set up. Luckily it’s not too long until the park closes for the night, and the Sweepers, as we call them, usher the last guests towards the gates. As they clear out, I give a heartfelt sigh. A job well done and a most satisfying meal. I can feel Bone Cat waiting expectantly, hand held high. I reach up and with the tips of my fingers give him his high five. As I do so, I feel a twinge in my shoulder. Evidently I still have some healing to do.
I tell the security people, who have taken over the site, that I am leaving. As usual, their reaction is mixed. They are unsure how to treat me, even after all this time, but no doubt the instructions they had received at their first orientation still hold. “He has seniority. He will always have seniority and is to be obeyed.” People tend to get nervous around something as open-ended as that.
Back in the late nineties, there was a security officer who had worked with me for close to thirty years. I can’t blame his curiosity, I suppose. Towards the end, he spent entirely too much time and effort trying to find out who I really was. The answers he dug up so unnerved him that it was easy to convince him that I had planted a false trail just to throw him off. Unlike other former employees, he’s never visited. Perhaps that’s for the best. His efforts weren’t wasted, though, as it pointed me towards all the remaining records that had to be scrubbed clean. There’s no place for real mystery in the Kingdom of Magic and Mystery. These days, because of me, security personnel are rotated across the various parks. Keeps them flexible is the official excuse. I try not to envy them.
I find a secluded spot and launch myself upwards. I drift high overhead, watching our guests pour out across the pavements, climbing aboard the fleets of buses that carry them off, or just scurrying across the street that I can never bridge to the cheap motels that line the avenue amidst the twenty-four-hour family style restaurants and souvenir shops. Lazily, I loop the perimeter, a ritual I have performed every night for close to sixty years now, and one that still gives me the same satisfaction.
I then swing back towards the heart of the park. No doubt the crowds that recently left, pushing their way out into the comfortably lit night, would be surprised to see the way the park lights have been cranked up and multiplied. The harsh glare washes away the charm that is present even under broad daylight, but it makes things easier for the thousands of people on the Night Shift that now roam the grounds tidying, cleaning, repairing, replacing, and preparing for a new inundation of expectant visitors on the morrow. The area around the Happiness Machine is a hive of activity, of course. I see actual non-company police there now. There is no way it will be open tomorrow, or even, in my opinion, by this time next week. I wonder how long it will be closed.
I am pensive, as I circle the park. A bomb. I have seen many things in my time here, but this is an unwelcome first. Pessimistic elements within the company had been expecting something like it for some time, of course, but not quite like this. If anything, we had feared a full-blown terrorist attack—replete with hostages and a simultaneous micromanaged social media blitz. That would certainly generate a great deal of publicity and outrage. But there is none of that here. Frankly, I believe we might even be able to sweep the whole thing under the rug, and upon due consideration, I realize that I’m the only employee that knows what really happened. I’ll tender a factual report to Mr. Shulman, of course, but first I will look about the park on the ground level, to make sure there is nothing else out of the ordinary.
I land. “Do you sense anything else amiss?” I ask Bone Cat after he reforms.
He taps out a little melody on his ribcage with his thumbs while he concentrates … then shakes his head. “Still nothin’.” He hesitates. “But … it’s weird. I’ve really got used to the Happy music stuff, you know? It’s strange not to feel it anymore.”
I shrugged, then reconsider what he’s saying. “Wait … are you telling me that you could hear the music of the Happiness Machine all the way over here?”
