The Darker Carnival (The Markhat Files) by Frank Tuttle Page B

wall, flap half-closed, dim light from a nearby lantern creeping through.
    My heart was pounding. I didn’t realize how hard and fast I was huffing and puffing until I tried to speak.
    “Alfreda,” I said. “The way out is magic. It isn’t there until you know it is.” I caught my breath. “I see it. Trust me. It’s there. Hold tight.”
    I grabbed Alfreda up with both hands and charged through the flap at a run.
    I fell flat on my face, Alfreda beneath me. We rolled and got tangled in each other and that probably saved both our hides because a hail of bullets from a rotary gun sizzled past just above my fool head.
    Noise returned, nearly deafening me after the eerie silence of the tent. Guns blazed. People shouted and screamed and ran. A trio of sword-wielding clowns went down a stone’s throw distant. A rotary gun chewed them in half before they flopped to the dirt.
    A cannon flashed and roared. The ball arced through the riding wheel, cutting a single spoke in two before falling down amid the tents on the far end of the midway. Dirt heaved up when it fell, peppering us with debris.
    Alfreda tried to scream. Things were coming through the flap after us, the quivering blob and the snake-headed walking tree among them. I scooped her up and took off in a crouch, seeking cover amid the tents across the midway.
    The cannon roared again. Rifles cracked and bullets whizzed. We reached the line of show tents about the time the rotary guns came thundering to life, spraying the emerging monsters with a hail of deadly bullets.
    The air stank of gunpowder and wood-smoke. A dozen tall fires danced amid the tents. Screams and shouts still sounded.
    A massive furry hand fell hard on my shoulder.
    “Whiskey?” asked the Troll.
    The wolf-man I’d whacked sprinted through the sleet of gunfire and charged us. I got my knife out of my boot but Slim knocked the wolf-man’s head off with a casual backhanded blow before the wolf-man got close enough to bite.
    The body went down thrashing.
    Slim the rheumy-eyed Troll looked down at Alfreda, who turned her face away.
    “Poor creature,” he said. His tone was sorrowful, not accusatory. He moved his furry paw to her head and clumsily stroked her hair.
    The cannon barked again. A fireball arced overhead, trailing sparks like a lazy comet.
    “Slim, who the hell is shooting?”
    The Troll shrugged. “Don’t know,” he said. “Thought you died. Gone for days.”
    Alfreda began to bawl. The last of the monsters fell, cut down by the guns, but then the guns themselves fell silent. As I watched, claws caught hold of the black flap, and a dozen glowing eyes peeked out from the dark within.
    I took advantage of the sudden relative silence. “Over here!” I shouted. “Evis! Darla! Anybody!”
    Arrows came wobbling down, cutting through the smoke and thumping into the ground around us. Slim sheltered us with his body, swatting away the only pair of shafts to fall close.
    I reloaded both my revolvers, dropping half a dozen rounds in the process.
    “Markhat!” came a bellowed reply. I recognized Evis’s voice. “Stay put, we’re coming!”
    The rotary guns opened up again. I heard crashes and shouts and the thunder of hooves.
    A sneaky clown sidled out of the shadows, crossbow leveled at my gut. I shot him, then emptied both guns into the enormous hairy bear-thing wiggling out of the black tent.
    A wagon rolled into view. Half a dozen black-clad halfdead, rifles blazing, leaped from the bed and rushed toward us. The figure holding the reins threw back his hood, and I recognized Evis in the dim light of many fires.
    “Don’t shoot the big guy,” I shouted. “Slim, don’t thump the vampires.”
    “Get on this wagon,” shouted Evis. He coughed and spat. “Dammit, where’s Buttercup?”
    The halfdead formed ranks across the midway, cutting down clowns and monsters alike. I hustled Slim and Alfreda toward the wagon, pushed her aboard.
    “Get her somewhere safe,” I said.
    Evis