Wasteland Warlords Episode 2 - 9 Carnie Tricks

And immediately found himself standing outside the carnival’s heart shaped archway. Joe stood at the turnstile with Chonk on his shoulder, looking confused and a little annoyed.

“Smilerfax didn’t have much of a grasp on what ‘fun’ meant,” he said when he saw Clay. “I’d even go so far as to say that starting this whole place over again is lame.”

“What,” Alex said, appearing behind Clay, “the hell?”

“It’s like those games where you keep getting sent back to the beginning of a level until you play through the right way,” Clay said. “The way the game wants you to play.”

He surveyed the place, searching for differences. At first glance, everything in the midnight creepfest seemed the same except for the bloody neon sign over the archway. Now it said, The heart’s deadliest desire is the sweetest food. . . .  except now all the periods in the incorrect ellipsis were black with that white stripe through the center.

“We missed something,” Clay said. “It has to be the black and white part of the pattern—we never found out what that last dot corresponded to.”

“But there wasn’t another spot on the funhouse for us to put a fourth prize in,” Alex pointed out.

“What if it’s a shadow level?” Joe gestured at the milk bottle toss on the opposite side of the heart-shaped arch. “Like when you smash all the mystery boxes on a level, then they send you back and all the boxes are replaced with outlines of boxes. Look.”

The pandas hanging from the tent were now the standard black and white, and the milk bottles which had all been painted a faded blue had been replaced with a row of black on the bottom, white in the middle, and black again on top. In the darkness, the top and bottom rows were just barely visible, and the white center almost looked like it was floating on nothing.

Clay craned his neck to look farther down the midway. The green superhero capes had been replaced with capes decorated black, white, and black again in three thick bands. The shooting gallery had been updated to match the new color scheme. Same for the ring-the-bell game and its prizes. The inflatable hammers looked even more ridiculous in black and white, like massively overstuffed Oreos on a stick.

“Could be a shadow level, I guess,” Clay agreed. But it would’ve been a lot more interesting if Smilerfax had set it up to keep sending them back until they figured out the puzzle.

Alex nudged him playfully. “Don’t sound so excited.”

“You’re right. We probably won’t ever get a job this easy again. I should enjoy it while it lasts.”

Joe cracked his knuckles. “Let’s smash some shadow boxes.”

The second they stepped through the heart and out into the midway, the multitude of garish yellow stage bulbs blinked off and the thin gauze of clouds pulled back. In the moonlight, the milk bottle tent looked mournful, the pandas misshapen and rabid. That warped carnival music sped up a few beats, snarling and shrieking and loping along, while the rides surrounding the carnival swung along at an insane wobble.

Joe set up at the milk bottle toss just like he had before, picking up one of the now black and white balls and winding up for the throw.

Chonk squalled.

He wasn’t by Joe’s side anymore, the little mechacoon had disappeared from the grass.

A plank of wood popped out of the ground in front of the milk bottles, with Chonk tied to its head.

Joe did a double-take. “What in the great name of Poulan Pro are you doing, Chonkie?”

Chonk scolded him back in racoon, kicking and biting at the electrical cords holding him in place. Like the world’s largest metronome, the wood plank started ticking and tocking back and forth in front of the milk bottle pyramid. A bear trap descended from overhead, its jaws snapping open and shut closer and closer to Chonk’s head.

“Give Chonk back, you coon-kidnapping jerks!” Joe started over the table, but with a hiss and snap of cord, the electrical cobras snatched him by the ankles and pulled him back. “Let me go or face the wrath of Bertha!” He pulled the chainsaw from its sheath and fired her up, swinging wildly. “Eat saw!”

Clay and Alex jumped in, her going for the caterwauling coon and him trying to free his caterwauling brother without taking a chainsaw to the face. But they hardly made it a step before the cord cobras had bound them up again, even tighter than the first trip through the midway.

A set of ghostly pale numbers appeared beside the bear trap, counting down the seconds from 19. With every turn of the clock, the bear trap’s jaws snapped a little closer to Chonk’s head.

“Joe, settle down!” Clay struggled within the cord’s pythonlike constriction. “I think you’ve got to win this before it hits zero to get him back.”

“But carnie clocks never play fair,” Joe wailed, still wheeling Bertha wildly at the electrical snakes. Every time he hit, the cords threw up a shower of blue sparks. “Everybody knows there’s no way to win it before the time’s up!”

The numbers did seem to be ticking down a lot faster than a full second. For every Chonk-pendulum swing, three seconds disappeared.

But maybe Clay could fix that.

He cast Control Lights, concentrating with all his might on the flashing numbers. With an effort of will, he slowed them down, first to regular speed 8…7…6…, then grinding them to a stop at 5.

“Do it, Joe,” Clay yelled, straining to keep his concentration as he felt a little more energy trickle out with every breath he took. “Knock down the bottles!” he growled.

“All right, Smilerfax, you sick clown,” Joe said, grabbing a ball and winding up. “Let’s play a game.”

He chucked the first ball too far toward the center. It pinged off the purposely out-of-line bottle, shaking the pyramid, but not knocking the insanely overweight bottles down.

“You missed!” Alex kicked and fought the cords attacking her. “You’ve got to focus, Joe!”

“I didn’t miss,” Joe said. He reared back for a second shot.

It hit the same bottle, veering off again without knocking down a single milk can.

Clay’s stomach sank. The clock started up again. He renewed his concentration, but this time he couldn’t do more than slow them down.

4…

“Yes you did! You said you had to take the bottom ones out one at a time to knock over the whole tower.”

3…

Chonk squealed as the bear trap snapped right next to his ear. He sucked his head down into his furry shoulders.

“I did not miss,” Joe repeated, his voice deadly calm. “I hit that one on purpose.”

2…

He winged the last ball at the very center of the pyramid, giving it everything he had. The ball smacked that same center milk can at top speed. It shot out from under the stack, taking the top two rows of bottles with it in a chaotic clatter of metal on metal. The bottom right can wobbled, then got smacked off the bench by one of the falling top cans.

The bottom left milk can spun in place, teetering almost horizontal, then righted itself.

It wasn’t going to fall.

1…

Alex gasped. “Clay, do something!”

Desperate, he cast Oil Slick on Chonk. Oil exploded from behind the mechacoon’s back, covering the pendulum and splattering the rest of them.

0…

The buzzer sounded and the bear trap’s jaws shot toward Chonk’s head.

With a wet sloop, the mechacoon slipped out of the cord cobra’s grasp and hit the ground—and he didn’t stop there. He slid a full thirty feet, finally coming to a stop when he slammed into the side of the fried Oreo stand.

The cord cobras dropped to the ground, lifeless once more.

Free of their hold, Clay slumped with relief. Chonk looked a little dazed, but at least he still had his head attached.

“What on earth were you doing, Joe?” Alex demanded, kicking a leg free of limp electrical cord. “You knew the trick—why didn’t you just knock them down like you said to?”

Joe rounded the table and went into the tent. “Because that’s what Smilerfax wanted me to do. This was the other way to win.” His voice became muffled as he ducked under the milk can bench. “The way to show this carnival who’s boss. Knock that cheater can back into line, then take them all out at once.”

Alex helped Clay to his feet. “Thank God you thought of that greasy spot spell.”

“Oil Slick. And you mean thank God I had just enough magicka to cast it,” he said, wearily. He felt like an overcooked noodle.

“I knew it!” Joe came up from under the bench holding a magnet the size of a grapefruit. “That cheating sumbitch. So that’s the way we’re going to play this shadow level, huh? Fine. The gloves’re coming off! No more Mr. Nice Monster of the Midway. Come on, guys.” He chucked the magnet at the last milk bottle, knocking it over with a clang. “Let’s tear this carnival a new one.”

The wind picked up, making the shooting gallery’s black and white capes flap ominously as they came to a stop in front of it. With a start, Clay realized not only the color scheme had changed. Now instead of harmless little pellet guns, three ancient AK-47s were tethered to the table with log chains.

“Clay!” Alex shrieked. Her nails scraped down the calf of his pants.

He spun around just in time to see her hand disappear into a trap door in the dirt. The door screeched as it slid shut.

“Shit, Alex!” He dropped to one knee and jammed the butt of his M4 in the hole.

“Too late, bro.” Joe tapped him on the shoulder, then pointed at the shooting gallery.

Alex’s wrists were tied to each side of the gallery frame. She struggled and jerked, but she couldn’t break free.

A huge round sawblade big enough to hew redwoods into deck planks popped out of the side of the gallery, inching toward her. It was going to cut her in half at the waist.

“Nope,” Clay said, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. I’ve read all about aKs. They have shitty aim even when they’re not rigged, they jam like motherfuckers, and—”

The ghostly number 19 appeared over Alex’s head. With a click, it ticked down to 18.

“Take it easy, bro,” Joe said. “You already know the trick and you beat this once—”

“Not with Alex right in front of the targets!”

“Clay, babe, I know you can make these shots,” she called. “You’ve got better dex than any of us. And if you miss, I’ve got plenty of hit points, right? Just… you know… hurry.”

13…12…11…

Bacon Bits tugged on his pants leg. “I am not powerful enough to help you in this form, but please save Alex. I like her. She carries me about.”

“I’m trying.” The saw was screaming closer, and he was out of Magicka to slow the clock. “Shit.”

Clay scooped up a rifle and checked the barrel for defects. It looked clean, so the sights were probably the rigged part. God help him, his hands were shaking like crazy. He swallowed hard and pulled it to his shoulder. “Don’t move, okay?”

“Hey, thanks for the advice!” she said in insultingly grateful tones. “I was about to start practicing my kata.”

“Hey, good time for sarcasm.” Weirdly, that she could make jokes did make him feel infinitesimally better, though. He started the controlled breathing, trying to will the oncoming sawblade out of his field of vision.

8…

He sighted the best he could down the probably messed up sights. He could just barely make out the black targets in the moonlight, and if the pattern had to do with anything, he probably had to shoot one black, one white, then one more black, just like the dots.

7…

He followed a target across the gallery.

But he couldn’t pull the trigger with Alex there.

6…

“Dammit!” He raised his head.

Maybe he didn’t have to play by the carnival’s rules. That had been the key in the last game—forget the way you were supposed to play it and come at the whole thing sideways.

4…

Clay jerked his chin at Joe. “Hit the deck just in case.”

“You got it.” Joe dropped, pulling Chonk and Bacon Bits down beside him.

3…

Clay took aim at the sawblade. As his breathing slowed, he felt himself relax and the whole world come into focus. He watched the individual saw teeth slicing toward Alex, saw the oscillation of the blade—there was a good inch’s give on either side. His gut told him that was the real key to the game, though if he screwed this up his wife was going to end up with an oversized saw lodged in her rib cage. So no pressure.

He sent up a silent prayer as he squeezed the trigger. Staccato bursts of automatic fire blasted out of the muzzle.

2…

The first shot hit the blade on edge, warping it. It wobbled and whined, thrown off balance. The next two shots in that burst missed, but he adjusted on the fly for the new trajectory of the blade and squeezed the trigger again. The concept of ‘spray and pray’ had never been quite so real to him.

1…

The second burst tore into the blade, this time ripping the disc halfway to the center. Jagged metal whipped toward Alex, but Clay sent the final blast downrange, nailing the swing arm the saw was attached to.

The mechanism shattered. At the same time, the cords tying Alex to the shooting gallery dropped loose. She ducked and covered. Clay followed suit as deadly bits of shrapnel flew off at all angles.

The timer hit zero and the buzzer sounded.

Clay leapt back to his feet and vaulted over the AK-47 table. He pulled Alex off the ground and hugged her tight.

“You did it, Clay-san,” she joked. “You became one with the bullet and showed that saw who’s boss.” When he didn’t let go, she patted him on the back. “It’s okay. You saved me. Everything’s fine.”

“Yeah, I know, I’m definitely fine with all this,” he said, squeezing her tighter. “Don’t I look fine?”

She laughed. “More like foin.”

“This is more affection,” Bacon Bits grunted darkly. “I too am glad Alex’s halves are still attached, but I retain my dignity and do not show it in public for all the other dungeon lords or their ghosts to see.”

“Aw, you little soft serve.” Joe rolled onto his side and scooped the teacup pig and Chonk into his arms. “I think some little oinker wants a group hug!”

“I do not! Unhand me immediately!”

When all the undignified displays of relief were concluded, the party made their way down the midway toward the ring-the-bell game.

The darkness felt electric with tension. Everybody was keeping an eye out for whatever insane new attempt on their lives the strength tester would make.

A light winked in Clay’s peripheral.

The fried confection stand’s inside light had come back on for a split second, illuminating what could only be the Widowmaker—a huge helping of deep fried Double-Stuft Oreos sprinkled with powdered sugar. Clay had just enough time to think you were getting your money’s worth and more with that puppy.

Then the light blinked off.

The distraction had caused Clay to fall a couple steps behind the rest. He double-timed it to catch up.

In the darkness, the toe of his boot caught on something. He pitched forward. With the lightning fast reflexes he’d gained from the Dex potion, he chopped his steps and saved himself a faceplant. The graceful save was all for nothing, however. The ground dropped out from underneath him. Blackness replaced the moonlit carnival, and he felt himself falling impossibly upward.

Somewhere in the void, he heard Joe yell.