Joel Arnold - Fetal Bait Apocalypse - 3 Collections in 1

He remembered when he’d been part of the audience. Connie was the one who got so excited about the circus coming.

“Oh, let’s go. Please Bill. The boys will love it. We’ll all love it so much.”

It was the first time in his thirty-six years that a circus had traveled to their small town. Maybe the spectacle would lighten their hearts. Let them forget the hard times, if only for a few hours. They could barely afford milk and bread, but how long had it been since Connie smiled?

He saved pennies and nickels in a Prince Albert tobacco tin hidden behind a wooden crate meagerly weighted with rations of sugar and flour and coffee. On the day the circus rolled into the barren fields on the other side of town, he had barely saved enough, and counted it twice to make sure he wouldn’t be embarrassed by coming up short at the Big Top’s ticket booth.

They traveled on foot for five miles over a dusty road, through the failing heart of Riverbend. The winding river that gave the town its name had dried up only two years earlier, leaving behind a bed of coarse gravel and widening fissures.

Dirt stung their eyes. Small funnel clouds of topsoil danced in the outlying fields. They wore handkerchiefs over their mouths and noses to keep from breathing in the dust, yet they still tasted it, a thin glue on their tongues. As William and his family neared the huge red and orange tent, the large entrance flaps snapping and whipping in the wind, they saw other families fighting their way through the blowing dirt.

They stepped inside. The wind stopped. William looked up slowly, carefully, pulling the handkerchief down as if he didn’t trust his senses. The smell of popcorn made his mouth water. A woman in a blue leotard and pink boa walked by carrying a tray full of beer. She stopped and turned to William.

“You look parched, mister. Have a beer on the house.”

“I can’t—”

“Oh, c’mon now.” Her smile was big. Wet. “Course you can.”

“Thank you.” He took the bottle of beer and sipped, closing his eyes. Nothing had ever tasted so good. He handed the bottle to Connie, then let each son take a sip.

He counted out his change at the ticket booth. The ticket teller slid back a nickel and winked. “The missus gets in free.”

William eyed the rows of available seating. Plenty of open space on the tiered metal benches. They ascended the rickety steps to a spot just left of center, and when they sat, only a moment passed before trumpets blared and the Ringmaster stepped into the center ring. His uniform was bright crimson in the hot spotlight.

William looked at his sons, their mouths agape, hands gripping the edges of the bench. He looked at Connie. Excitement and anticipation filled every pore on her face. For a moment, it was impossible to take his eyes off her. He soaked in her happiness as best he could, because he knew that when he told her the bank was foreclosing on their farm in the morning, it would be a long, long time before her face shone this brightly.

He blinked away tears, rubbed his eye, pretending a bit of dust had lodged there. He turned away. When his vision cleared, he saw a figure cloaked in shadows staring at him from the other side of the center ring.

A dagger of harsh sunlight pierced a hole in the big top’s canvas and caused William to blink and tilt his head. He struggled to keep his balance as his sons inched closer. He felt their fear tremble through the wood of the balance pole. He stopped. Closed his eyes. Regained his balance and sucked in the pain.

From the other side, Connie whispered, “ William. ”

He gritted his teeth. Took another step. “Look at me, boys. Slow and steady. Slow and steady.”

His right foot pressed deeply onto a razor blade. The razor sliced into his heel, not stopping until it hit bone. He held in a scream. Blood dripped through the net to the sawdust below.

The circus clowns gathered. They looked up at him. Pointed. Sneered.

He’d never seen them without their makeup on. He never wanted to. They were short, brutish things. Coarse black hair sprouted from the thin line of exposed skin between their white gloves and tattered coat sleeves. They were kept away from the other performers in claustrophobic, thickly barred cages, and only let out at show time.

Five of them stomped below him now, jumping up and down, snarling, laughing.Did the audience see them lapping at his blood as it dripped into their mouths?

What had he seen when he’d been part of the crowd?

The figure clothed in shadow .

What had propelled him to her?

“How about a soda?” William asked his sons as they sat transfixed in their seats.

“But William — “ Connie placed her hand on his knee. Her eyes were large, moist moons, and she didn’t have to say another word to convey her worry over money. How could they afford anything else on this day? This month? This year?

“Don’t worry, Connie. I’ve got enough to cover it.” Just enough. He patted her hand. Winked. Ran his fingers over the back of her wrist. How could he have known it would be the last time he’d see her?

Really see her — as someone whole. Solid. Not merely the mist waiting on a platform high in the air whispering his name.

“ William. William .”

Halfway across, his sons heavy on the balance pole, his blood dripping; the clowns below catching it within the darkness of their painted-on smiles.

His sons inched closer as he took another excruciating step.

Soda.

He circled the perimeter of the performance area to the concession booth. Down here, the crowd sounded different, like hundreds of birds squawking in a deep canyon. Between the metal benches, in the empty spaces between seats and floorboards, a thousand luminous eyes surveyed the arena. The performers seemed to move behind a wall of murky water. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a clown pull off what looked like great hunks of taffy from its face. But his main focus was concentrated on the figure in the shadows.

He knew her name.

Aria .

When she smiled, William’s mouth went dry. His tongue felt like a sponge wrung out and left to dry on hot concrete.

He’d dreamt of her for as long as he’d tilled his fields. Dreams that were warm and moist, dreams from which he awoke next to his wife, next to Connie, with a sense of guilt and longing.

How many nights had he slipped out of bed to stand trembling in the bathroom, the lights off, his reflection ashen and dim in the mirror? His hand stroking feverishly below…

Every time he finished, he felt as if his soul had been yanked up through his throat. He’d slip back into bed next to Connie and face away from her. Otherwise, he couldn’t fall back asleep.

Aria . But how could this be her?

He knew it was her the same way he knew when to plant the fields in spring, the same way he knew when to harvest in the fall. He felt it. Felt it inside him like a hornet trying to work its way through the valves of his heart.

She reached out and touched his forearm.

“I can help you.”

He barely nodded. A part of him was angry and wanted to ask, Can you pay off the bank? Can you save our farm? But instead he looked into the shadows of her cloak and knew she could help him in a more fundamental way.

“Do you want to be helped?”

William gasped “Yes.” He stepped forward and lost himself in something wet, deep and cold.

Suffocation. Numbing blackness.

How long can a man drown in oblivion without collapsing in on himself? His soul shrank and unraveled for an eternity until the woman from his dreams unfolded from him like shadows melting into daylight.

Then — so many years later…

His hands gripped the rough, flexible rungs of a rope ladder, and he found himself climbing up, up, up toward a canvas ceiling. A flock of silhouettes danced and cawed impatiently overhead.