Walter Greatshell - Apocalypticon

Reining in one of the ponies, Righteous Weeks called out, "What in hell's going on? Somebody makin' a break I don't know about?"

Voodooman could only shake his head. "I don't think so."

"Be one hell of a diversion."

"You got that right," agreed Voodooman in his Texarkana drawl.

Despite what the announcer said, nothing was under control. In fact, the trouble was spreading like wildfire, doubling every couple of minutes. The number of cops was shrinking by the second, and now some of them were joining the fray, crazy and blue-faced as the women, attacking and grappling with anybody they caught, forcing their victims down like spiders on flies and sucking the life breath out of them-a kiss of death. "Love Potion Number Nine," Marcus thought crazily, but there was nothing funny about it. It was all happening so fast. People were dying-they were as dead as any corpses Marcus had ever seen, and he had seen a few. But then the weirdest thing kept happening, the ridiculously crazy thing. The victims-the corpses frozen in their last death rictus-would jump up and maul someone else. It was like a murderous game of tag: You're it.

Voodooman could see the whole deranged business because the crowd was thinning as people fled the stands. They ran down onto the field, scattering in all directions, and the horrible blue attackers followed them. Marcus couldn't believe how many of the things there were already. Another few minutes, and there wouldn't be anybody alive and sane left in the arena. For a moment longer there were isolated bursts of wild shooting, then no more guns, no more guards, no more control.

Frozen with shock, Voodooman said, "What the fuck they doin' to 'em?"

"I don't know, brother, but leave us get the hell outta here."

A man carrying a little boy ran up to them, screaming, "Help us! Please stop them!"

"What the fuck you expect us to do? We ain't armed."

"Please! They're coming-!" He was suddenly blindsided by a running leap, taken down by a feral-looking teenage girl. She was all over him like a snake swallowing a rat-it was if she thought she could burrow down into his body through his mouth. Her teeth broke against his teeth. The little boy was knocked to the ground and lay there screaming.

They could hear the man's chest collapse, like the dregs of a milk shake being drained through a straw.

Voodooman grabbed the kid and put him on the skittish horse, tying a rope around his middle and fastening it to the saddle horn. "Hug his neck good and tight," he said, shaking the child by his shoulder to snap him out of it. "Okay?" The boy nodded through his tears. To Righteous Weeks, Marcus said, "Get up there with him, man. Go!"

"You do it-I ain't gonna be nailed with no childendangerment rap."

"Just ride clear of this mess and drop him off with somebody!"

Before Righteous could reply, the horse suddenly reared up, yanking him off his feet and breaking his grip on the reins.

"Damn," he said, watching his favorite mount escape with the bawling kid on its back.

"Ain't nothing we can do," said Voodooman grimly. "Come on."

They allowed themselves to be swept up in the hysterical mob exiting the field. People were being attacked right and left, or falling and being trampled. As the two convicts crowded through the entrance promenade, they saw their cell-mate 50 Cal galloping toward them on another horse, the warden's big Percheron stallion. Cal had a blue woman lying hog-tied across his legs, and a little girl hanging on to his waist from behind. As he rode, he had to hold down the woman with one hand to prevent her from bucking loose. People beseeched him to stop, to save them, too, but he ignored them, breasting their yearning hands as if they were a cane thicket.

Approaching Voodooman and Righteous Weeks, he shouted, "I roped Darleen! She ain't right, but I'm takin' her and Maybelline!" Before he could reach them, one of the demonic ghouls leaped from the crowd and knocked 50 Cal out of the saddle, taking his wife and daughter with him. The horse reared, kicking someone in the head with a sound of busting crockery.

"We gotta catch that horse!" Voodooman shouted, and the two men plunged through the dwindling crowd after it. Things were going south fast, the ranks of fleeing people eroding around them like a sand castle. The horse was their only hope-Marcus realized that without it, they were no better than sheep: easy pickings for the ravenous wolves at their heels.

But just as they caught up to the plunging beast, and Righteous caught the reins, Voodooman knew it was too late.

The demons were on them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus saw something ugly rushing toward him, a blue-faced scarecrow with a shock of straw blond hair. It grabbed him hard around the neck and toppled him into the horse's haunch, causing the animal to buck, kicking wildly. He felt the force of its hooves rocket past his face, hard enough to snap his neck or crush his skull had they struck him. Instead, they hit the thing on his back: two iron-shod pistons straight to its face. Something wet spattered his neck, and at once the weight was off his back.

He spun to see a whole pack of blue devils swarming in, this final invasion going unnoticed by Righteous, who was too busy steadying the horse to see them coming.

"Look out!" he shouted, just as the other inmate vaulted into the saddle. Marcus grabbed hold of his waist and put one foot in the stirrup, hanging off the side like a circus rider as Righteous kicked the animal into motion.

The horse wouldn't go; it tossed its head in confusion, spinning sideways to see the wave of crazed harpies sweeping in from behind. Its big golden-apple eyes rolled with panic.

"Hah!" shouted Righteous, kicking its flanks. "Run, bitch!"

All at once a huge, humped shape barreled out of the darkness and straight into the thick of the ghouls, running them down or tossing them right and left on the honed tips of its horns-an enormous Brahma bull with blood in its eyes.

"Damnation!" yelled Righteous. "It's Damnation! Somebody musta left his pen open!"

The bull veered around the stalled horse, nearly goring Marcus as it stampeded past him toward thicker concentrations of people in the visitor parking lot. He winced as its horns thundered by, close enough to graze his back. That would be the final irony: if after everything that happened, he was killed by a steer.

But it didn't touch him, kept right on going. The sight of the bull snapped the horse out of its panic, and it immediately broke into a following gallop. Marcus swung himself up over the horse's rump, grabbing Righteous Weeks around the waist, and saying, "Don't get no ideas. This don't mean we're engaged."

"Just hang on."

Weeks reined the horse sideways behind the arena, driving the nervous animal away from the crowd and off the main thoroughfare. A ravening horde of maniacs followed, but Marcus applied his spurs, and the creatures fell behind in the dark. Other refugees were there as well, scattered across the parade grounds and running for the farm out-buildings. When they saw the horse, some turned around to beg for help and were immediately attacked by blue-faced ghouls. There was shooting along the fence line, guards in the towers trying to stop what they thought was a mass escape. No way Righteous was going anywhere near there; get shot trying to escape with his parole hearing coming up next month? Uh-uh. Ignoring the civilians, he called to any convicts they passed, "Stay away from the perimeter fence! Get up inside the main camp!"

Prison buses and trucks with horse trailers were peeling out of the rear staging area, some covered with crazy attackers, some crashing before they got out of the parking lot. The animals were all over the place. Marcus saw a bucking, panicked mare with a blazed face dragging a snarl of concertina wire with people tangled up in it.