Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes by Rob Deborde

Author:Rob Deborde [Deborde, Rob]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Horror
ISBN: 9781250018601
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2012-10-16T05:00:00+00:00

16

“Nineteen?”

Andre turned the number over in his head. Nineteen. He’d expected it to be bad, but that many wounded was far worse than he’d imagined. The first accounts they’d heard after coming ashore in Newport described a wild shootout, although who was doing the shooting was not clear. By the time Naira procured horses and provisions for the journey north, the shootout had become a “massacre” and the perpetrators a “gang of outlaws.” The day-and-a-half ride to Tillamook brought more accounts, many describing a single villain killing without remorse. Just outside town, they met a man clutching a small wooden cross to his breast who claimed Death had descended on the traveling circus to pass judgment on the wicked.

Now that they had arrived at the scene, the worst of the stories appeared to be true. The midway was in disarray. Many of the booths and platforms had been knocked over or destroyed, some had burned. A handful of carnival workers pushed at the debris with brooms and shovels, none seeming to grasp whether they were packing up or shutting down for good. A tiny man scrubbed the floorboards of a stage, trying to remove a deep red stain.

Andre and Naira stood before the smoldering remains of a larger tent at the end of the midway. A sign trampled underfoot was too scorched to read save for a caricature of a man hanging from a tree. The burned-out husk of a coffin sat in the center of the wreckage.

Andre pulled the hat from his head, squinting into the sun, and asked a question he had no desire to hear answered.

“How many dead, Sheriff?”

Sheriff Matt Taylor, who throughout his tour of the carnage with Andre had been otherwise subdued, finally perked up.

“Just the one.”

Andre glanced at Naira. This was not the answer either of them had expected.

“And he died of a knife wound,” the sheriff continued. “Rest is still kicking, far as I know. Some of ’em are an awful bloody mess, but they’re alive.”

Could Andre’s theory be wrong? Might it not be him?

“Show me.”

* * *

Andre walked among the wounded, letting the emotions collected inside the big top flow into him. Fear filled the space, only it wasn’t the fear of death or sickness but something more primal, more intense. Andre had an idea what to name it, but held out hope his fears would not be realized.

The sheriff stopped alongside the bed of a young man with an oblong face. There were scars along his neck and chest, but only his shoulder was bandaged.

“Kid’s one of the lucky ones,” said the sheriff. “Caught it in the shoulder. Them other marks is, ah, well, he was like that ’fore he got shot.” The sheriff glanced about the tent and then leaned closer to Andre. “Lot of ’em was shot ain’t exactly normal folk, you catch my meanin’.”

Andre did. “Carnivals tend to employ a rather colorful cast of characters.”

The sheriff grunted. “Maybe that’s why so many of ’em survived. What’s another scar

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