Ryan sucked down a quick breath and rushed over to the spot where the roustie had been standing. What with the screaming and shouting in the tent, he couldn’t detect the hiss that might have told him which canister had been opened. Standing with his chest pressed against the bars, he reached through and ran the palm of his hand in front of the nozzles turned toward him.
Nothing from the first.
Nothing from the second.
Cold.
Cold that burned like a blowtorch.
He jerked his hand back. Ignoring the blisters that had been instantly raised on his palm, ignoring the growing, burning pain in his chest, he screwed down the wheel that sealed the nozzle.
Then he spun away, running around the trailer for the exit. He could see the tent was almost empty of people. Dean and the little girl, J.B. and Doc and Jak were bringing up the rear, driving out the stragglers.
How far did he have to run to be safe?
How much gas had escaped?
How much would it take to chill him?
Hand of fate, he thought. Hand of fate.
He ran until his legs gave out, and that wasn’t far. Fifteen steps. Mebbe twenty. Just over the center ring’s bumper, he dropped to his knees. Should have taken a deeper breath, he told himself. Then he gasped for air and choked on a lungful of razor blades.
Chapter Sixteen
Strong hands reached under Ryan’s armpits and pulled him to his feet.
When he opened his eyes, he stared into irises the color of blood.
Jak ducked his head under the one-eyed man’s left arm. J.B. did the same on the right, and they half carried, half dragged him to the exit. As Ryan labored to breathe, it felt as if Baldoona the scalie were jumping up and down on his chest.
Outside the tent, while he sat on the trampled earth beside the entrance, Mildred quickly looked him over, testing his pupils, pulse, and examining the inside of his mouth.
“Your mucous membranes are blistered from some kind of corrosive poison,” she said. “If you’d gotten a little bit bigger dose, it would have turned your lungs to rags.”
As Ryan fought to catch his breath, he focused on the berm wall opposite the tent entrance and about 150 feet distant. On this side of the big top, the people of Bullard ville were nowhere to be seen. And there weren’t any carny chillers in evidence, either.
From the ville, out of sight on the far side of the tent, came a sudden crackle of blasterfire. The hollow booms of black-powder blasters mixed with the sharp, rapid reports of automatic weapons. People started yelling and screaming. Then a gong sounded, over and over.
The Bullard ville call to arms, Ryan had no doubt.
He knew a running firefight when he heard one. So did the other companions. And this battle quickly increased in intensity.
“What’s happening?” Leeloo asked Dean, her eyes wide. If the little girl wasn’t afraid before, she was afraid now. The blasterfire wasn’t part of any show. It was real.
In a few clipped phrases, Dean explained it to her. The poison gas. The mass chilling that had been in store for every man, woman and child, all to allow the robbing of the dead.
“They’re gonna be sorry they ever started this,” Leeloo said angrily. “Everybody in the ville knows just what to do, even the kids too young to carry blasters. We train all the time to drive off chillers and robbers. Sometimes we drill in the middle of the night. We use real bullets, too. Whenever that bell rings, everybody is ready to fight.”
“How many rousties did we get?” Ryan asked J.B., his voice cracking and hoarse.
“Six or eight.”
“Plenty left, then.” He hawked and spit to clear his throat.
” ‘Fraid so,” J.B. answered.
“The Magus is behind this whole operation.”
Ryan said. “And he’s here. He was watching the show, sitting there like a big fat spider, waiting for the gas to be released.”
“You saw him?” Krysty asked.
“Just for a second. I had a shot at him, but I couldn’t make it. He got away.”