Page 48 of The Knucklebone Brothers

We moved like wraiths through the abandoned carnival. Duffy, oblivious, was making his way towards the centerpiece of our decayed kingdom: the Ferris wheel. It stood silent and rusted, a giant, skeletal hand reaching for the sky. In its passenger cars, nestled amongst the faded, torn padding, were skeletons. Some were the cheap, plastic kind you'd buy at a store, their grinning jaws and hollow eyes a mockery of death. But others, nestled in with the fakes, were real. Small, delicate animal bones—a fox, a raccoon, a crow—bleached white by the sun and wired into place. You couldn't tell the difference unless you knew what to look for, unless you knew our family's particular brand of artistry.

Maverick broke away, a silent predator gliding through the tall weeds. He approached the old generator, a hulking beast of rust and oil that sat at the base of the wheel. He grabbed the cord and yanked. The machine kicked back with a violent shudder, spitting out a cloud of greasy, black smoke that smelled of ozone and gasoline. It hadn't been used much, not since the last family ritual, but it always started for him.

A low hum filled the air, a sound that vibrated deep in your bones. Then, one by one, the lights along the midway began to flicker to life. Not the bright, cheerful lights of a carnival in its prime, but sickly, pulsing colors—jaundiced yellow, bruised purple, arterial red. The Ferris wheel itself lit up, its rusted frame suddenly outlined in a garish, pulsating glow. The sound was a symphony of decay—a grinding, groaning metal, a low electrical hum, and the faint, discordant tinkling of a calliope music box we'd wired into the system, its melody warped and slow.

Duffy was frozen in the center of it all, his flashlight beam trembling as he spun around, his face a mask of pure shock. It was like he'd stepped into his own personal haunted house, a nightmare brought to life just for him.

Maverick jogged back over, grabbing a thick, greasy rope that was coiled near the base of the ride. Without a word, he tossed one end to me. I caught it, my fingers moving with practiced ease, my body remembering the knots even as my mind stayed cold and focused. We started to walk towards Duffy, the rope between us, our faces hidden by our masks, moving as one entity through the eerie, blood-soaked light of our resurrected playground.

Chapter 17

The groan of the generator and the warped calliope melody were the only sounds that mattered. Duffy was a statue of terror, his head swiveling, his piggy eyes wide. Maverick was a shadow, a flicker of movement on the border. He didn't make a sound. Not a single leaf crunched under his boots. He was behind the sheriff in an instant.

With a sharp, vicious kick, Maverick swept Duffy's legs out from under him. The sheriff went down with a surprised grunt, his hands flying out to break his fall. That was his mistake. In that split second of vulnerability, I was on him. I lunged forward, the noose I'd tied already looped in my hand. I dropped it over his head, the rough rope scratching against his collar.

Before he could even process what was happening, Maverick grabbed the other end of the rope and yanked. Duffy was yanked backward, his feet flying out from under him. The noose tightened with a wet thump, and the scream that tore from his throat was cut off into a choked, gurgling gasp.

His body became a frantic, thrashing thing. His legs kicked, his heels digging furrows into the dirt and gravel. His hands flew to his neck, his fingers clawing desperately at the rope, trying to get a purchase, trying to get even a sliver of air between the hemp and his skin. It was useless. His eyes bulged, bloodshot and terrified, his mouth opening and closing like a fish on a hook.

In his panicked flailing, his hand slapped against his own hip, right over the butt of his pistol. It was a stupid, reflexive move, the last desperate act of a man who thought he was in control. I saw it happen in slow motion. Before he could even get his fingers around the grip, I moved. I lunged forward, my hand closing around the worn, checkered grip of his revolver. I yanked, hard. The gun came free of its holster. Without breaking stride, I spun around and hurled it into the dense thicket of blackberry bushes and kudzu that lined the edge of the midway. Now he was just a man. And a man was easy to break.

Maverick was laughing, a high, unhinged sound that echoed through the eerie lights of the midway. He started pulling, dragging the sheriff's body across the ground, his muscles straining. "What's wrong, Sheriff?" he taunted, his voice a singsong mockery. "Don't like the hospitality? You said we didn't belong with you. Look at you now! Just a sack of meat, freak! Who's the freak now, huh?"

The sound was a symphony of horror. The scrape of Duffy's boots on the gravel, the wet, ragged sounds of his strangled breathing, the groaning of the Ferris wheel as it slowly turned, casting its pulsating light over the scene. The lights played tricks on everything, making the shadows writhe like snakes and the skeletons in the cars seem to nod in approval. We dragged him towards the base of the wheel, his body leaving a streak in the dirt. He was still fighting, still kicking, but his struggles were getting weaker. He was just a toy now, a plaything for two monsters in the dark.

Maverick gave one final, mighty heave and then let go of the rope. Duffy's body landed with a dull, heavy thud in the dirt, his legs twitching in a final, spastic dance. The moment he hit the ground, the groaning of the Ferris wheel ceased, its lights freezing in place, bathing the scene in a sick orange and red.

I didn't waste a second. I dropped to my knees, wrapping the end of the rope around the thick, rusted bars that connected one of the passenger seats to the main frame of the wheel. My fingers flew, twisting and looping the hemp into a series of tight, unforgiving knots, the kind I'd been tying since I was a boy. When I was done, I stood up and gave Maverick a sharp, decisive nod.

He danced over to the control box. It was a crude thing, a mess of exposed wires and greasy levers. He slammed his palm down on the main switch.

The generator screamed, a high-pitched shriek of metal on metal, and the Ferris wheel jolted back to life. It didn't start slowly. It lurched into a violent, continuous spin, snatching Duffy's body from the ground. The rope went taut with a sound like a rifle shot, and the sheriff was airborne, his body whipped around in a wide, sickening circle. He wasn't rising and falling; he was a human in a different kind of death circle, a blur of brown uniform and flailing limbs pinned to the ride. The warped calliope music kicked in, its jaunty, discordant tune a horrifying soundtrack to his flight.

His body was a frantic, horizontal pinwheel. His arms and legs were thrown out, clawing at nothing. The force of the spin was immense, pulling at his joints, stretching his body out. The lights played tricks on him, turning him into a streak of pulsating color, a grotesque shooting star in our personal hell.

Maverick let out a whoop of pure joy, his head thrown back. He walked over to the control box, his fingers dancing over the levers. He'd let the wheel spin at a frantic pace, then suddenly kill the power, letting Duffy's body slump to the ground gasping for air for a moment before jerking it back to life. He was conducting a symphony of terror. Maverick would let the sheriff get close to the ground, his feet kicking in a pathetic attempt to find solid earth. At one point, in a moment of desperate, idiotic hope, Duffy tried to stand up, his boots scrabbling for stability on the rusted bars of the passenger car. He almost got one foot under him, his leg muscles straining, but he couldn't get any leverage. His boot slipped, and with a choked gurgle, he was thrown back into the frantic, helpless spin.

I lit a cigarette, the flame flaring in the gloom, and stepped back into the shadows. I took a long drag and watched as Maverick had his fun. I watched him laugh as he played with his new toy, a puppet on a string. I wondered how long it would take for him to have his fun. I wondered how long we'd have to wait before we could finish this.

Finally, Maverick's game seemed to lose its shine. With one last, dramatic flick of the lever, he killed the power to the wheel. It spun down with a groaning, metallic sigh, its lights flickering before dying completely. Duffy's body went limp, slumping against the rusted bars of the passenger car before sliding to the ground in a heap. He was wheezing, each breath a shallow, wet rattle. The torture must've busted something up inside him good. He was close to death, but not quite there. Not yet.

Maverick and I slowly approached him, our boots sinking softly into the dirt. Duffy was a wreck. His face was a swollen, purpling mess from the hanging, the skin dark and tight. One eye was completely bloodshot and bulging. His lips were blue and life was fading. He tried to lift a hand, a pathetic, trembling gesture, but it just flopped in the dirt, his fingers twitching uselessly. He was broken, a toy that had been played with too hard.

We stood over him, two silent, masked figures. Then, as if on cue, we both reached up and slowly lifted our masks. We smiled down at him, our expressions identical—cold, empty, and utterly without pity. It was a look that said, We're not done with you yet.

The sight of our faces, of the cold humanity behind the masks, seemed to terrify him more than anything. A fresh wave of panic washed over what was left of his features, a silent, pleading look.

We let him stew in that fear for a moment longer, then pulled the masks back down, hiding our faces once more. Maverick turned and walked away off to the side, towards a small, beat-down shed that leaned against the treeline like a tired old man. He disappeared inside, emerging a moment later with a heavy axe in his hand, the blade gleaming dully in the faint lights.

I knelt down, my fingers working quickly to untie the rope from the bars. Once it was free, I grabbed the sheriff by the collar of his ruined uniform and started dragging. I dragged him deeper into the midway, towards the old ring-toss game. The counter was rotted and falling apart, but the painted backdrop, a grinning clown with a gaping mouth, was still mostly intact. It looked like an altar, a place of sacrifice. I dropped him unceremoniously at its feet, his body landing in a heap of broken bottles and dirt.

I backed away, giving him room, my boots crunching softly on the dirt and broken glass. Maverick walked forward, his steps slow. The heavy axe resting on his shoulder. He stopped over Duffy's body, looking down at him like a farmer inspecting a sick hog. He nudged the sheriff's side with the toe of his boot.

"Time to say goodnight, Sheriff," Maverick said, his voice a low, singsong whisper that was more terrifying than any shout. "Gotta make sure you don't go tellin' any tales."

He raised the axe, holding it with both hands, his muscles tensing. The warped calliope music seemed to hold its breath. For a second, there was only the sound of the wind in the rusted rides.

Then he brought it down.