Free Noir by Jacqueline Garlick Page A

the ringmaster!”
    The freaks cheer.
    Frightened, I haul C.L.’s head up. “Oh, my God, you’re bleeding.” There’s a sizable gash at the back of his skull from where he landed on the rock. Blood trickles through his hair. I tear a length from my petticoat to try to stop it.
    “There’s a first-aid kit in the caboose,” a raspy voice says.
    I look up and stare at the train. The freaks have fallen quiet, receded into the shadows of their pens. Or at least it appears so, because I cannot see them.
    I look all around me, searching for the voice, but through the trolling fog I see nothing.
    “The keys,” the voice says. “You’ll find them in his pocket.” A snake-scaled human arm pokes out from between the bars, pointing in the dead ringmaster’s direction. A clamp and chain dangle from its wrist, connected to the wall of its car. “On the inside of his breast pocket, in a secret zippered compartment,” the voice adds.
    I scramble to my feet, a little afraid, racing on shaky knees toward the ringmaster’s lifeless body. Bending down, I unbutton his vest quickly and run my fingers along the inside of his garment. I try my best to avert my eyes from the bones protruding from his neck. The pocket is cool, a fine grade of silk, just as fine as my father used to wear. I drive away the thought and keep searching. My fingers soon find the compartment. I unzip it and find a large set of skeleton keys on a ring.
    I yank them loose, nearly flinging them into the trees, I’m so nervous, and race for the caboose. The lock on the door clamours as I stuff key after key into it.
    “It’s the gold one,” the voice says. “The kit is inside the bench to the right.”
    “How do you know all this?” I ask curtly into the darkness.
    “Let’s just say”—the voice hesitates—“every freak show needs a doctor, even if he travels in chains.”
    The air fills with the clank of chain links and shackles, as one by one the freaks gather up enough courage to reveal themselves. The whites of four sets of eyes peer out at me through the bars. Their haunting presence chills my skin. I rub down the goose bumps that grow on my arms and will my feet to move toward them. I know I need to get back to C.L. But I fear I’ll need some help to revive him. And the plan always wasto overthrow the master and befriend the freaks for their help. I swallow. I just expected C.L. would be the one befriending them, not I . . . alone. I gulp again. No time like the present to meet my future accomplices, I suppose.
    I tread lightly, looking back over my shoulder at C.L. The same kind of turbulent fury whirls in my chest as it did the first time I laid eyes on him and Cordelia.
    What am I fearing? C.L. once lived among them, and he’s wonderful. A branch snaps beneath my feet and I jump. A tiny bolt of terror shoots through me.
    Honestly. I shake it off. They’re just people. I bite my lip. A burning cold shivers through my body. My mind drifts to my epilepsy. All the violent episodes I’ve endured through the years. Had I ever been caught having one of those, I, too, could have been forced to live behind bars.
    This could just as easily have been my destiny.
    The notion emboldens my step, and I move more confidently toward the cars. “Hello,” I say into the darkness.
    “You a friend of Crazy Legs?” says a set of blinking eyes.
    “Yes. Are you?” I test the waters, trying hard not to tremble. The creature shifts to the front of the car, and I try not to react, failing, gasping and feeling instantly shameful, as I’m taken aback by the look of his skin—parched and dried as a drought-damaged riverbed, not a single hair on his head.
    “Any friend of his is a friend of ours, right, group?” He speaks over his shoulder.
    Three more creatures rumble in their cages.
    “I’m Martin.” He sticks a mummified-looking hand out between the bars. Chains rattle at his wrist.
    I hesitate before taking it, not proud of myself, but I do, trying