the shadowy funhouse, past mechanical monsters from Mars and wax
zombies and wooden lions and rubber sea beasts. Eventually she saw a
shaft of light coming up from the floor, back in the darkness to the
left of the track, where the glow from the work lights didn’t reach.
Hoping the light represented a way out, she led Joey behind a pile of
papier-mache boulders, where she found a trapdoor in the floor.
“Is this the way out?” Joey asked.
“Maybe,” Amy said.
She got down on her knees, leaned forward, and looked into the dimly
lighted basement of the funhouse. The place was filled with humming
motors, with rumbling machines, with giant pulley wheels
and gears, with banks of levers, with enormous drive belts and drive
chains–and with shadows. She hesitated. But then that reassuring,
inner voice urged her not to retreat, and she knew she was meant to
descend into the lower chamber, there was nowhere else for her to go.
She sent Joey down the ladder ahead of her, covering him with the
gun.
When he was at the bottom, she followed quickly. Very quickly–because
suddenly she wasn’t sure Joey was protected by the unseen power, as she
felt herself to be.
Perhaps Joey was vulnerable.
“This is the cellar,” Joey said.
aYes,” Amy said. aBut we’re not underground. The cellar is really the
first floor, so there’s almost sure to be a door to the outside.” She
held his hand again, and they eased down the aisle between two rows of
machinery, turned a corner into another aisle–and saw Liz. The girl
was on the floor, on her back, head twisted and bent unnaturally to one
side, eyes wide and sightless, stomach torn open, dressed only in
blood.
“Don’t look,” Amy said to Joey, trying to shield him from the awful
sight, even as her own stomach flip-flopped.
“I saw,” he said miserably. “I saw.” Amy heard a deep-throated
growl.
She looked up from Joey’s tear-stained face.
The hideous freak had entered the aisle behind them. It was crouched
to avoid hitting its enormous, gnarled head on the low ceiling. Green
fire flickered in its eyes. Drool coated its lips and mat ted the wiry
fur around its mouth.
Amy wasn’t surprised to see the thing. In her heart she had known this
confrontation was unavoidable. She was walking through these events as
if she had rehearsed them a thousand times.
The creature said, “Bitch. Pretty bitch.” His voice was thick. It
came out of cracked, black lips.
As if drifting through a slow-motion dream, Amy pushed Joey behind
her.
The freak sniffed. “Woman heat. Smell nice.” Amy didn’t back away
from it. Holding the pistol at her side and slightly behind her,
hoping the freak would not see it, she took a step toward the thing.
“Want,” it said. “Want pretty.” She took another step, then a third.
The freak seemed surprised by her boldness. He cocked his head, stared
at her intensely.
She took a fourth step.
The creature raised one hand threateningly. The claws gleamed.
Amy took two more steps, until she was only an arm’s length from the
freak. In one smooth, swift movement she raised the gun and extended
it and fired into the thing’s chest–once, twice, three times.
The freak staggered backwards, driven by the fusillade. He crashed
into a machine, throwing several levers with his outcast arms. The
wheels and gears began to turn all over the basement, the belts started
moving, and the drive chains .Y.
clattered from one steel drum to the next.
But the freak didn’t fall down. He was bleeding from three chest
wounds, but he was still on his feet. He pushed away from the machine
and moved toward Amy.
Joey screamed.
Her heart pounding, Amy raised the gun, but waited. The freak was
almost on top of her, swaying, eyes unfocused now, drooling blood. She
could even smell its fetid breath. The thing swung one massive hand at
her, trying to rip open her face, but it missed by inches. Finally,
when she was absolutely sure that the bullet would not be wasted, Amy
fired another round into the creature’s face.
Again, the freak was flung backwards. This time he fell hard against