June 2010 — Flea Market Zombies

Conductor’s mask is fixed. I stand and open the door.

The smell of fried dough and the high-pitched ringing of arcade games drift by, carried on the wind. Overhead a million balloons, all the colors of the rainbow, weave and bob in the breeze, swirling in an intricate dance. An ocean of people crowd my door. Children clap and jump at the sight of my familiar blue-striped shirt, their frenzied faces twisting and grinning and crying in an almost religious release of pent-up joy and excitement; their parents roll their eyes and look bored. No matter. It’s not the adults I am interested in.

Occupied faces never notice the stars etched into the balloons bouncing above. Distracted minds never ponder the circular patterns coiled in the cobblestones underfoot. Conductor’s eyes never flicker. Conductor’s smile never slips.

Tickets are produced, and the sea of humanity floods past me, braying and blind. Parents load their young into Chris’s carriages then retreat to the bar that we’d so conveniently placed next to the tracks. How long will they sit there? How long before they wonder if something is wrong?

Conductor takes tickets, grins his wide grin and poses for pictures. Inside, I scan the crowd and wait. It will happen; the sheer crush of people means it has to, eventually. Time passes, sluggish and lazy, crawling along while I wait, anticipatory, tense, feeling like each of my nerve endings was aflame. Tickets are punched.

Then; there.

A child trips and scrapes its knee on the cobblestones. It cries, a loud wail, and blood spatters and flows through the grooves between the stones, into the soil underneath.

Conductor’s mask falters, briefly, but nobody sees. All their eyes turn towards the bleating child. I suppress a moan and force myself to regain my composure. Blood. The years of preparation were not in vain.

Enough of this foolishness, the time is at hand. “All aboard!” Conductor shouts, petroleum grin still immobile, and the last of the younglings are shuffled onto Chris. The train whistles and belches a thick cloud of smoke. Children cheer. Conductor smiles.

I walk the length of the train and ensure the children are in their seats before I take my place up front, near the engine. A moment later we are underway. I push a button and horrible, cheerful music blares from the speakers set into the roof. The innocents react as a mass and dance and sing and play in the aisles. Their motions make me think of yeast bubbling in a vat of brewing beer, and my stomach rumbles. The station fades behind us. Trees blur past windows. In the distance, the tunnel pops into view, a speck on the horizon. Not long now.

Conductor’s hand grasps the microphone, brings it to his face. “Hope you’re ready for some fun, kids!” I shout in a British accent. The forced exuberance tastes like ash and makes my cheeks hurt. A cheer drowns out the music. “Who’s the bestest train in all the world? Who traveled here all the way from the magical island of Sheol to visit all you lucky tykes here today?” A pause; I lick sweat from my lips.

The cattle clutch their plush toys and their coloring books to their chests, then yell in high-pitched unison: “CHRIS THE CHOO-CHOO!”

A sigh passes from me. Conductor’s mask falls and the muscles of my face spasm in an ecstatic tremor. My teeth grow; my face stretches; my eyes burn.

Oh yes, children, K’riss will chew, and chew, and chew indeed.

Behind me, the screams start. Tears flow like wine, like blood. The tunnel comes fast, a seething, inky hole that dives into the ground at a 45 degree angle.

The controls quiver in my hands and the smokestack belches another puff of smoke. This whistle is deeper, more sinister than the one earlier. Master is pleased. Master is hungry.

My maw twists into a grin, my first true smile in over fifteen years. All the events, and the shows, and the readings, all for this.

The squeals of the cattle and the shrieking of the train’s wheels join in a wonderful cacophony, a violent, thrashing orchestra of sound. My hands drip sweat onto the controls, but they are steady. So many years.

The tunnel rises to meet us. Chris shudders and disappears into the gaping hell-mouth.

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