Page 3 of Runt's Haunted Ride
"Alright, boys, listen the fuck up!" Fang's voice cut through the chatter as members finished checking their gear and securing their cuts. The VP stood on the clubhouse steps, clipboard in hand, like some twisted drill sergeant. "Assignments for tonight. Pay attention because I'm not repeating this shit. And remember, we're here from now till two a.m. So, if I catch any of you drinking, there will be hell to pay."
A groan went up from everyone but me. I just leaned against my Harley, arms crossed, waiting for the inevitable bottom-of-the-barrel assignment that would come my way. Around me, Tank, Diesel, and the other members gathered in a loosesemicircle, their faces eager. Security work meant easy money, and easy money meant more toys for everyone. Plus, I was certain the distant music was affecting them too.
"Leaper, Crusher—you're on main gate duty. Check IDs, make sure nobody smuggles in weapons."
The two men nodded, clearly pleased with the cushy assignment.
"Snake, Reaper, Bones—you're on parking lot patrol. Keep an eye on the bikes and cars, make sure nobody's breaking into shit or dealing drugs without the carnival's permission. I want one of you on your bike patrolling at all times. The head guy's pretty anal about no one getting in there."
More nods. Parking lot duty meant you could smoke, shoot the shit, and basically get paid to stand around looking tough.
"Tank, Diesel—you're in the performers' personal area. Their campers and all that shit. Apparently at the last stop, some asses broke into the trailers and stole a bunch of stuff. We're not going to let that happen. All the staff have lanyards, so make sure you're checking."
Fang's gaze moved down his list, and I felt my stomach tighten. The good assignments were disappearing fast, which meant I was about to get stuck with something that would either be boring as hell or dangerous as fuck.
"Heavy, Torch, Wrench—you're big tent security. Walk around that thing and make sure no one gets in until it's time. That's another one the weird head guy's serious about. Although I think that freak's stuck in serious mode." Fang made a stern-looking face, and the guys chuckled.
"Runt, Swinger, and Bulldog." Fang's voice barked. "You get the fun job. Ground patrol. Walk the midway, keep your eyes open, and handle any trouble that pops up. Think you all can handle walking around for eight hours without fucking something up?"
Ground patrol. The assignment nobody wanted because it meant being on your feet all night, dealing with drunk civilians, lost kids, and whatever other bullshit came up.
"Copy that," I said, keeping my voice neutral. No point in giving Fang the satisfaction of seeing my annoyance.
"Mount up, boys!" Fang shouted. "Time to show these carnival freaks what actual security looks like!"
Engines roared to life as fifteen Harleys fired up in sequence. The sound was pure thunder, chrome and steel and raw power that sent vibrations through my chest. Whatever else you could say about the Silverbacks, we knew how to make an entrance.
The ride to the carnival took about twenty minutes through the winding back roads that led to the old fairgrounds on the outskirts of town. As we got closer, the sounds grew louder, including the haunting music.
But it was the sight of the place that made my gorilla instincts uneasy.
The Carnival of Shadows lived up to its name. Even from a distance, there was something unsettling about the whole setup. Where most carnivals blazed with bright, cheerful lights, this one seemed to absorb illumination rather than reflect it. The colors were deep and rich—blood reds, midnight purples, and gold that looked more like ancient coins than cheerful yellow.
The main tent dominated the center of the grounds, a massive structure that seemed to loom higher than physics should have allowed. Smaller tents and attractions surrounded it like satellites orbiting a dark planet, each one decorated with intricate designs that hurt to look at directly.
And the smell. Even with my enhanced senses, I couldn't quite identify what I was picking up. Something spicy and exotic, like incense mixed with old paper and something else. Something that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
We parked our bikes in the roped-off section near the main entrance that the carnival had set aside for us. As I dismounted, I caught my first clear view of the entrance gates.
A towering black wrought-iron fence and gate that, if you caught it at the right angle, twisted into shapes that looked almost like writhing bodies. Above the entrance, a banner proclaimed "CARNIVAL OF SHADOWS - WONDERS BEYOND IMAGINATION" in letters that seemed to shift color in the flickering light. Below were the two ticketing booths. On either side of the entrance, six tall pictures of the performers, clowns, and vendors. All of which had an extreme Halloween scary factor about them. I made up my mind that I had no intention of getting too close to any of them. My eyes landed back on the clown’s faces.
"Nope," I shivered.
"Fucking creepy," Tank announced, voicing what we were all thinking. "I hate clowns."
Several of the other guys were expressing their agreement with his statement.
"Just remember, boys," Fang called out as we gathered our gear, "we're here to provide security and keep our eyes open. Don't get distracted by the freak show, and don't forget why we're really here."
The reminder about the President's treasure hunt sent a ripple of anticipation through the group. Easy money was good, but the possibility of a big score was even better.
A figure approached from the carnival entrance, and I got my first look at someone who demanded attention. Every single ounce of it. His presence somehow seemed to both fill the air with anticipation and joy, yet it felt like the air was being slowly sucked from my lungs. The man was well over my six-foot-four height. And thin. Wisp-like thin. He moved with such ease it appeared he was floating.
He was dressed in an expensive-looking black suit with blood-red pinstripes. But it was his accessories that made the pit of my stomach and my gorilla recoil. A black top hat adorned with small bones arranged where the hatband would have normally been, dark feathers, and what looked like two tiny skulls dangling from red cords at ear level. Around his neck hung multiple necklaces of carved bone and blackened silver that clinked softly as he moved.
But it was his face that made me suck in my breath. Pale grey skin stretched tight over sharp features, marked with intricate raised scars that spiraled around his temples and down his cheeks in patterns that hurt to look at directly. His under-eyes and eyelids were the color of coal. Symbols were tattooed along his jawline—twisted designs that seemed to shift and writhe when I wasn't looking straight at them. His enormous black eyes scanned all of us, making me feel like he inspected and judged my soul.
"Gentlemen," the man said, his tone deep and smooth as silk but with an underlying hiss that set my teeth on edge. "Welcome to the Carnival of Shadows. I am Ringmaster Mortis, the owner of this humble establishment." He gave us a small bow of his head.
