Free Thirty Miles South Of Dry County by Kealan Patrick Burke

trottin’ right behind him were Moses the stray, lookin’ like he belonged nowhere else. His tongue lolled as he kept pace with what I knew from the dream to be his master, the only one that mattered now. June Wheeler would get to keep her hundred bucks.
    I risked a look at Kirkland and saw that he were standin’, and sobbing, weavin’ on his feet like a man tryin’ to anticipate from which direction a blow is comin’.
    Cadaver, though he were watchin’ with the rest of us, were still sittin’. I had to admire that. If a sight like The Bicycle Man don’t fill you full of terror, I reckon nothin’ will.
    The small crowd parted and The Bicycle Man rode into the heart of it, where he stopped.
    It seemed that even the slight breeze that had been blowin’ stopped. There weren’t a sound until The Bicycle Man hit his bell one more time— tring! —and stepped down off the bike. He looked around at each of us, his lips spread in a grin full of curved yellow teeth so sharp I were put in mind of a shark. And when his gaze found me I almost fell. For a moment, just a moment, it were like I were awake on an operatin’ table with cold hands rootin’ around in my insides and in my brain. I swear I felt fingers touchin’, feelin’ around, knowin’ me in ways people are only supposed to know themselves. I guess if you want to know the truth it were almost like bein’ raped. And when it were over, I felt sick, and diseased, and…invaded. It knocked the wind right out of me, and this time, I grabbed Iris for support, though now she looked as if she’d been invaded too. Her mouth was turned down in a look of pain, her eyes squeezed shut. I imagined, considerin’ what she did for a livin’, she’d felt that way before, but never like this. This was somethin’ different, somethin’ cruel, and when it were over, I could see on all the stricken faces gathered there, that there weren’t a one of us who hadn’t felt the same. And in my brain there was two single words, spoken in a voice like a gust of wind through the eaves of an old stone house: It’s you .
    Apparently satisfied, The Bicycle Man took a step back, and, still wearin’ that ugly grin, pulled from one of his pockets a small wooden box, kind of like the ones a woman might use to store her jewelry. The wood were pale and yellowish, like lacquered pine, with gold symbols all over it. With another glance, as if to be sure we was watchin’, The Bicycle Man waved a hand over the box like a magician and set it down on the ground at his feet. Then he straightened.
    The lid of the box popped open, and I saw what appeared to be a small porcelain ballerina. It were a music box, and with a wink, The Bicycle Man waved his hand again and the girl began to turn.
    The song that played weren’t anythin’ I’d ever heard before, but it tugged at my guts in the same way as The Bicycle Man’s gaze had. I cradled my arms around my stomach, sure I were goin’ to be sick, and then I heard someone else do that very thing. A pained sidelong glance showed me that Kirkland were bent over the fountain again, and vomitin’ like it were a competition. We all watched him, each one of us feelin’ that song as sure as if it were a thousand rusty needles bein’ slowly pushed into our bodies.
    Then, thank God in Heaven, it stopped, and The Bicycle Man, with another flourish, reached down, picked the box up and snapped it shut. Then he slid it back inside his pocket. After a moment, he swiveled on a heel to face the fountain.
    More words came into mind from a voice not my own: Council adjourned. So it shall be.
    This is where it got worse. Like his blind look, like the terrible music, we could feel somethin’ rotten in the air, somethin’ poisonous and deadly, somethin’ that were buildin’ up with each second that ticked by. The sun seemed to grow dimmer, though since The Bicycle Man had touched me, I couldn’t trust my vision anymore.
    He looked at Kirkland.
    Kirkland