The Darker Carnival (The Markhat Files) by Frank Tuttle

exhaustion.
    Her experiences, relayed briefly in whispers, mirrored ours. She saw half a dozen second-rate carnival acts, no living dead girls, no signs of anything more sinister than rigged ball-toss games.
    My fancy pocket-watch showed midnight before the crowds began to thin. By half-past, only a few tipsy stragglers remained, and those were being shooed toward the exits by a dozen broom-wielding clowns.
    By then, we were safely tucked in the trees. I chose a hiding place downwind of the mastodons, sure that would mask our scent even if the carnival folk released dogs.
    Gertriss covered her blonde hair with a tight black scarf. Both women buttoned their jackets up to their necks. Darla’s skirt was gone, replaced by a pair of plain black trousers that she just happened to have in her purse.
    We watched the clowns sweep the last of the merry-makers down the path that led to the river. Once the civilians were out of sight, the carnival started shutting down in earnest.
    Fires flared as trash was collected and burned. The snack-wagons and food carts rolled toward a big tent in the rear, from whence came the sounds of pots rattling and water hissing as it steamed.
    Carnies ran to and fro, shouting and cussing, hauling this or striking that. The spider web of lights in the sky began to go dark, as the lanterns either winked out or were hauled in, one by one.
    It took a half-hour. At the end of that, the midway was dark and quiet and every carnie worker from the ogres on down was tucked away inside, quiet as corpses.
    That raised the hair on my neck. Silence was the last thing I expected.
    Then the bugs stopped singing. The first hard frost hadn’t hit yet. There should have been crickets. Maybe the odd frog or two. Hell, frogs had been croaking, just a few moments ago, I thought. Hadn’t there?
    “Something wrong here, boss,” whispered Gertriss. Darla heard, and nodded agreement.
    My gun was in my hand.
    We waited, silent and still. Give the ladies this—the Sarge would have been proud of the way Darla and Gertriss held a long silence. No twigs snapping beneath a carelessly-placed knee, no stretching that rustled fallen leaves, not a sound.
    We heard the newcomers well before we made out their furtive forms in the moonlight. A crowd of men, sixteen strong, huddled together and moving fast in the middle of the fresh-cleared road.
    Clowns moved with them. Two before, four after. The clowns had swapped their brooms for studded oak clubs. The clowns weren’t capering. Weren’t shuffling.
    The front clowns halted the parade right before the carnival ticket gates.
    Thorkel stepped out of the dark, swinging his cane. I couldn’t hear what he said, could barely make out the dulcet tones of his voice. Whatever he said met approval with the crowd, because they hooted with glee and charged the gate, parting around Thorkel while he slowly turned to watch them go.
    Thorkel said something to the clowns. They beat it for a tent just inside the gates. A few lights flared, here and there. The carousel organ began to toot and whistle as it lit up and began to turn.
    Thorkel put his back to us and strolled inside his carnival, swinging his cane and whistling a tune I didn’t know.
    Darla put her hand on my right shoulder and dug her fingers in. “You are not going in there alone.”
    “How many women did you count, in that crowd?” I asked.
    “We’ll stick to the shadows, boss,” said Gertriss.
    “You’ll get us all killed, is what you’ll do,” I said. “No way can either of you pass for a man, and you know it. Anyway, I’m not convinced I’m going in. Let’s wait a bit. See what we can see.”
    Darla loosened her grip, just a little.
    It didn’t take long.
    The first scream sounded five minutes after the crowd hit the gates. It was a man’s scream, short and gruff and cut off suddenly.
    Laughter, high and shrill, sounded right after.
    “That’s one,” whispered Gertriss.
    The second scream came moments later. This