Richard Laymon - The Traveling Vampire Show

I nodded, but he didn’t see me. He was too busy studying the holes in his arm.

“What is it,” he grumbled, “a fuckin’ conspiracy?”

I shrugged. “Just coincidences, I guess.”

“A fuckin’ dog made your dad crash.”

“Guess so.”

“Not to mention the fuckin’ one-eyed wonder.”

When he said that, I pictured that dog getting speared to death by Stryker and his gang.

Where is his gang? I wondered.

Looking around, I spotted a couple of them near the entrance to the grandstands, taking tickets. I didn’t see any others. Just those two, and Stryker in the shack.

Rusty used his wadded shirt to pat the bite wounds.

Just that morning, we’d tended to Slim’s wounds on the roof of the shack after escaping from a different dog.

Strange.

And if some other dog hadn’t caused Dad to crash his car, everything tonight would’ve happened differently. Much of it wouldn’t have happened at all.

Including what went on with Slim and me.

Very strange, I thought.

“Y’wanta give me a hand?” Rusty asked.

I softly clapped.

“Har har.”

So then I climbed over the side of the pickup truck and sat beside him. He thrust the bloody shirt at me. “Make me a bandage, okay?”

“With your shirt?”

“Why not? It’s wrecked anyways.”

“It’s a day for wrecking shirts.”

He frowned at me. “This has been a very weird fuckin’ day.”

“You’re telling me.”

I looked at his wounds. The poodle had left two small, curved rows of punctures near the back of his arm a few inches below his shoulder. Most of the bleeding was over, but they seemed to be leaking slightly. I tore a long strip off the back of Rusty’s shirt, then wrapped it around his upper arm. With another strip, I tied it in place. “There you go,” I said.

“Grassy-ass.”

I looked toward the shack. Stryker still stood behind the counter, but the ticket line had dwindled down to three people. A few others were straggling in from the area of the dirt road.

“You sure you wanta go through with this?” I asked.

As if there were any doubt.

“You kidding me?” he said.

“How’ll we get in?”

“We got our tickets, man. Why not walk in like anybody else?”

“We’re under age.”

“BFD,” he said. I don’t think anyone says BFD anymore. In those days, it stood for “big fucking deal.”

Rusty leaned over the tailgate of the pickup truck and stared at the ground. I knew why. He was thinking about the poodle, wondering what had gotten it and wondering if the same thing might make a try for him.

So was I.

“Whatever it is,” I said, “I guess it’s full.”

“I don’t know, man. That was an awful small dog.”

“Wanta stay here and listen to the Vampire Show?”

He groaned, then leaped down. I jumped to the ground after him. Staying low, we rushed through the gap between a couple of cars. At the end of it, there were no more cars to conceal us. We stood up straight and walked toward the grandstands.

Over to the right, people were still in line to buy tickets. More were on the way. Stryker seemed busy behind the counter. I wanted to watch him the whole time to make sure he never looked at us, but I had to keep glancing at the ground.

In the glow of the stadium lights, the dirt looked pale gray. Broken glass glittered. Bumps and rocks cast dark shadows. Holes were blotches of blackness. I was looking for creatures. What I saw instead were cigarette butts, a mashed pack of Lucky Strikes, a flattened beer can, a dirty white sneaker…

Slim’s sneaker?

It might’ve been one of those Rusty had thrown at the one-eyed dog. I was tempted to pick it up. But it looked as if it had been run over. No telling what else had happened to it—maybe a spider had crawled in. Maybe if I reached down for it something would spring at my hand. Besides, what good would one sneaker do Slim?

If Rusty saw the sneaker, he either didn’t recognize it or didn’t care. He kept on walking.

I caught up to him.

Just in front of us, a man and woman were about to encounter the ticket-takers. The man turned slightly and extended two tickets to a black-shirted member of Stryker’s crew.

Rusty nudged me with his elbow, leaned toward me and whispered, “It’s Hearn.”

Sure enough, the man in front of us was Mr. Hearn, a history teacher from our high school. I didn’t recognize the woman beside him, but figured she was probably his wife. Though we hadn’t taken any classes from Mr. Hearn, we’d seen him around school and knew who he was. He probably knew who we were, too.

Everybody knew everybody.

He hadn’t seen us yet, but…

Recognizing someone from our town came as no surprise to me. I’d expected it. It was inevitable. Before, however, it had been inevitable in some sort of distant, abstract way. Now, it was real.

Too real.

Even if plenty of spectators had come to the show from places like Clarksburg and Bixton—from all over the county—we were bound to be surrounded by people from Grandville who would recognize us and spread the news.

We’re gonna get in so much trouble!

I stopped dead. Even as I reached for Rusty, he handed his ticket to one of Stryker’s gang.

She was a slender, pale woman with straight black hair down to her shoulders. She wore a shiny black shirt and black leather pants. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she took Rusty’s ticket. Her lips were bright red. She smirked and said to Rusty, “You’re a big fella.”

He nodded.

She slid a fingertip down his bare chest. He squirmed and grinned. “Not eighteen, though, I bet.”

“Sure I am.”

She turned to me. “And you.” Still smirking, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, boys, but this event is for adults only.”

Thank God, I thought.

Nodding, I was about to turn away.

“We have special permission from Mr. Stryker,” Rusty said.

Away went her smirk. To the other ticket-taker, she said, “I’ll be right back.” Then she stepped past us. “Come with me, boys.”

Rusty started to follow her. I put my hand on his shoulder. His bare skin was hot and moist. He scowled back at me and kept walking.

I tried to speak, but felt choked at first. Then I forced it out. “We don’t have to see the show, ma’am. If it’s a problem…”

Rusty gave me a murderous glance.

“If you’ve got Mr. Stryker’s okay,” the woman said, “it’s fine with me. They’re his rules.”

Rusty’s turn to smirk.

I gave him a murderous look. Didn’t he know we were being taken to see Stryker? Had he forgotten what Slim had told us? Or didn’t he care that this was the same guy who had rammed his spear up the butt of the one-eyed dog, picked it up with the spear and delivered it to the hearse?

I glanced toward the parking area.

If I made a run for it, would they come after me?

Probably not. Not with all these people around. The trouble was, Rusty might not come after me, either.

He really wanted to see the show.

So I stuck with him. The woman led us to the side door of the shack and rapped on it with her knuckles. A moment later, it was opened by Stryker. Light spilled out around him. He frowned as if annoyed by the interruption.

“Vivian?” he asked.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Stryker, but these boys claim they’ve got your permission to see the show.” She stepped out of the way.

Stryker’s eyes swept up and down Rusty. Looking somewhat disgusted, he shook his head. But when he saw me, his heavy black eyebrows slid upward and he smiled. “Ah, it’s you.”

I nodded. My heart was thudding. I wanted to whip around and run like hell, but I just stood there.