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Novel Description:
Midway: A Harvesting
Series Novella (Book 1.5 in The Harvesting Series) is a tie-in novella
that compliments The Harvesting, Book I in The Harvesting Series.
Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, for the beginning of the end.
Carnie. Ride jockey. Roustabout. White trash. Tilt girl. Gypsy. Cricket has been called a lot of things, but she never thought survivor of the zombie apocalypse would be one of them. One day she’s barking on the midway, and the next day, the world is eating itself alive.
Cricket, along with Vella, a tarot reader, and Puck, Cricket’s mangy mutt, find themselves running for their lives, but where can you hide when mankind has fallen? Cricket will need help if she hopes to survive.
Luckily for her, we were never really alone, and apparently, magical forces want to keep this tilt girl alive.
Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, for the beginning of the end.
Carnie. Ride jockey. Roustabout. White trash. Tilt girl. Gypsy. Cricket has been called a lot of things, but she never thought survivor of the zombie apocalypse would be one of them. One day she’s barking on the midway, and the next day, the world is eating itself alive.
Cricket, along with Vella, a tarot reader, and Puck, Cricket’s mangy mutt, find themselves running for their lives, but where can you hide when mankind has fallen? Cricket will need help if she hopes to survive.
Luckily for her, we were never really alone, and apparently, magical forces want to keep this tilt girl alive.
At the end of the first edition
of The Harvesting, I had originally included a
short tale about a carnie girl named Cricket whose storyline ran juxtaposed to
Layla’s, protagonist in The Harvesting.
This brief story was titled The Parallel
since its timeline ran parallel to The Harvesting. Some readers loved Cricket. Some readers were confused by the placement of The Parallel. I had originally included the story because
Cricket will play an important role in the rest of the series; I wanted readers
to meet her sooner rather than later. I really debated what to do with Cricket. In the end, I removed her story from the second edition of The Harvesting.
Cricket, however, is rather bossy. She wanted to
her own story. She basically told me: “I survived the zombie apocalypse. Aren’t
you at least gonna tell people how it happened?” Okay, Cricket. Readers who
read the first edition of The Harvesting
with recognize the first three chapters of my forthcoming novella, Midway. But I decided I would let you meet some of the forthcoming The Shadow Aspect's characters now and see some important events. After all. I
already knew what happened to Cricket between The Harvesting and the forthcoming The Shadow Aspect (and how those storylines converge), but I hadn’t
planned to write out the complete tale in detail. Cricket, however, insisted, and
my characters are usually right. Enjoy Chapter 1 of Midway,
Cricket’s story.
 |
| Little Cricket by Heather Ainsley |
Chapter 1
“Tilt-a-whirl, tilt-a-whirl, tilt-a-whirl! Come on ride
my tilt-a-whirl! I’ll whirl you round the world,” I barked to the mostly empty
aisles at the Allegheny Fairgrounds.
I looked up
and down the aisles. The place was like a ghost town. While bags of pink and
blue cotton candy hung in the food joints, cherry red candy apples glistened in
the sunlight, and over-grown stuffed purple monkeys hung at the game booths,
ripe for winning, no one was around to stuff themselves on carnie delights. The
smell of kettle corn still perfumed the air, but for a carnival that was
usually packed with excited townies, I swore I wouldn’t be surprised if a
tumbleweed blew down the row.
After a bit, two
young boys came up to my line. They were only kids around. The older looked to
be about twelve. The younger, a good two inches under my height bar, had pulled
himself up to full height and tried not to meet my eye.
“Tickets,” I
said to them.
Confidently,
the older boy handed me his ticket and passed through. The younger boy
hesitated. Guessing he’d be all right, I let him through. The older boy slapped
him a high five when they thought they were out of earshot.
I turned the
key and started the ride. The boys smiled at me. I waved to them.
“Hey Cricket,”
Harv, the balloon-pop agent across the aisle, called to me. “Where is everyone?
Allegheny Fairgrounds is usually packed. I’m gonna go hungry.”
I leaned over
the gate and twirled my blonde braid, checking out the split ends. “I heard
someone say it’s the flu keepin’ people home. You know they closed LAX? I hear
it’s gettin’ real serious. You get a flu shot?”
“Naa. Damned
thing always gives me the flu. You know, Bud’s got it. He’s been laid up in his
RV all day.”
“Anyone been
by to see him?”
Harv shrugged.
“He’s grouchy when he feels good. I don’t imagine he’d be a barrel of laughs
when he’s sick.”
“No man is.
Even the common cold has you all actin’ like a bunch of babies.”
“This coming
from a blonde,” Harv replied with a laugh.
“You better
watch yourself. I’ll come pop your balloons.”
“Baby, a
grenade couldn’t pop those balloons,” he said with a laugh.
I turned back
to the boys. They were all smiles; round and round they spun. Since no one else
was around, I let it run until they signaled they’d had enough.
Around nine
o’clock that night, the owner, Mr. Marx, came by. I had not seen a soul on the
fairway since the boys left. “Sorry, Cricket. We’re going to teardown to get
ready for the jump to Cincinnati. We’re just burning juice and not making a
dime. This place is dead; not a soul here.”
“All right
then,” I replied, and Mr. Marx wandered off. I realized he hadn’t said a word
about when he would pay us for Allegheny Fairgrounds, dead or not.
Moments after
he left, the first of the evening fireworks shot across the sky. The dark sky
was illuminated with gold and pink. I waited for a moment, expecting to hear
the excited oohs and ahhs that usually followed what was a
pretty measly fireworks display, but there was nothing, just the pop and
crackle of the fireworks followed by silence. Eerie.
I whistled for
Puck, my mangy mixed breed and the only male I swore I would ever truly love. After
a few minutes, the hound-shepherd mix with honey-colored eyes appeared; he
looked dirty and happy. I’d found him about a year ago. Well, actually, he’d
found me. We were getting ready to leave Crawford County Fairgrounds when he showed
up at the tilt begging for scraps. I made the mistake of feeding him a leftover
funnel cake, and after that, I couldn’t shake him. A mischievous little devil,
Vella, the tarot reader, gave me the idea for his name: Puck. She said it was
the name of a rascally faerie creature. It fit him. From that moment on, Puck
and I were always together. More than once, a growl and flash of teeth from
Puck had gotten me out of a jam. I loved that mangy mutt.
“Up to no
good, were ya?” I asked, scratching him on the head. He licked my hand and
wagged his tail. I closed up my till and headed to the bunk house to look for
some extra muscle to help with the teardown. As I passed through the midway I
saw most of the other joints and booths were already closed. Mama Rosie was
just closing up the snake show when I came by.
“Marx closed
down everyone up here already?” I asked her.
“They’re all
sick, Sug,” she replied as she dropped one of her small snakes into her bra. I shivered.
Everyone loved Mama Rosie, but no one understood her relationship with her babies. She always had one hanging out
of her bra, hanging around her neck, or stuffed in her clothes. Mama was a big
woman who liked to wear baggy, loud-colored gowns. I hated sitting next to her
at dinner. You never knew when one of the babies
might suddenly slither out of her hibiscus-print dress.
I set my box
down and helped her push the trailer door closed. “How about you, Mama? You
feelin’ all right?”
“I think I ate
something bad at lunch, but I’ll be fine. You headed back to the bunks?”
“I guess. I
was hopin’ Beau and the boys would come give me a hand.”
“Sug, Beau
would give you a hand, arm, leg, or toe if you asked. Why don’t you give that
boy a chance?”
“Oh, Mama
Rosie, I don’t feel nothin’ like that for him.”
“But you run
off with townies often enough.”
“Well, we all
have needs.”
Mama Rosie
laughed loud. “You got that right. I thought maybe you were hoping someone
would marry you out of the life.”
“And give up
all this?”
Mama Rosie hooted
again, her boisterous laughter filling the empty aisles.
While the
smell Chinese food, funnel cakes, and fried sausage still filled the air, there
was no one around. Power was still on, so the midway sparkled in a rainbow of
light, but the place was like a ghost town. I had never seen it like that, and
since I’d practically grown up in the carnival, that was saying something.
Several game booth agents had even left their plush hanging—now that was odd.
As Mama and I
passed by Iago’s Traveling Torture show, Mr. Iago came out. I winced. After
three years of traveling with Great Explorations carnival, I had yet to warm up
to Mr. Iago. His show was creepy. I’d once had a look inside. The place was
hung with all kinds of pictures of people being tortured, and he had old
torture devices like the rack, an iron maiden, a wheel of fortune, and other
small harmful contraptions. Mr. Iago was as creepy as his show. On the outside
he looked normal enough, just a funny-looking little bald man with too big-ears
and a pointed nose, but it was what I felt coming from inside him that set me
on edge. I never looked him in the eye.
“Mama Rosie,
Cricket,” he called politely.
“You headed
back too, Mr. Iago?” Mama called cheerfully.
“Yes, Ma’am, I
am,” he replied politely.
“You make any
scratch today?” Mama asked him.
“Well, I don’t
like to discuss finances,” he told her in his quiet manner.
“He don’t like
to discuss finances,” Mama said mockingly to me. “All right, Mr. Iago. You just
go on with yourself then.”
“No offense,
Mama Rosie,” he replied quietly.
“Of course
not,” she replied and rolled her eyes at me.
When we got
back to the bunk houses there were half a dozen people sitting outside at a
picnic table listening to the radio. I spotted Mr. and Mrs. Chapman. They owned
three of the grab joints; Mrs. Chapman waved to us. She was a biblical woman
whose savory corndog breading had won top prize at a competition last year. If
you didn’t mind hearing her recite verse all day, she was fine to be around.
Red and Neil, two ride jockeys, were there as well. Red ran Big Eli; Neil ran
the swings. The resident lot lizard, Cici, was snuggled up to Ned. I was
surprised to see Vella there as well. Vella, the tarot reader, was a Romanian
immigrant who called herself the only authentic Roma, which she said meant
gypsy, in America. Even though she was just a little older than me, Vella
scared me. She’d never done anything to me and was really nice, but she scared
me all the same. The others said she was dead-on accurate with her readings and
often had bad news to give. I didn’t want to be around anything like that.
“What’s the
news?” Mama Rosie asked.
“Lord, help
us! This flu is something else. They have quarantined almost every city on the
west coast: LA, Seattle, Portland, San Francisco . . . you name it. They got
the national guard on the highways keeping people out,” Mrs. Chapman said.
She was quiet
then. We listened: “And inside Portland Central Hospital, military personnel
have opened fire on seemingly-rabid patients,” a female reporter was saying.
“Reports from the scene indicate that a riot broke out at the hospital when
patients, suffering from side-effects of what now seems to be a pandemic flu,
began attacking other hospital patients and employees. CDC officials have
confirmed that increased violence appears to be associated with the afflicted
and continue to advise everyone to avoid direct physical contact with those
with the illness. Martial law has been instituted in all major west coast
cities and cities across the south. Cities across the northeast and central US
have issued a curfew. There have been reports of runs on banks, grocery stores,
and fueling stations.”
“What are they
sayin’ on T.V.?” I asked.
Red shook his
head. “We can’t get a signal in. No one’s dishes are working.”
“President was
on the radio. Told everyone to be calm,” Cici said.
“Easy for him
to say. They probably got him stashed in a bunker somewhere,” Mr. Chapman
replied.
“Highways are
gonna be backed up. And nobody’s gonna be interested in a fair, not at
Allegheny and not in Cincinnati. But I bet if we don’t jump, Marx is gonna
stiff us,” I told the others.
They nodded.
“Well, if
ya’ll give me a hand, I’ll pay back the favor,” I told Red and Neil.
“No problem,
Cricket. You see Beau around?”
I shook my
head. “I just came lookin’ for him.”
“He’s sick,”
Vella said. She rarely spoke, so when she did, we all turned to her. “Leave him
be,” she added, her voice still thick with her Romanian accent.
Vella had been
shuffling her cards the whole time we’d been listening to the radio. Apparently
I wasn’t the only one who noticed.
“What do the
cards say about this flu, Vella? Should we hit the road? Stay put?” Mama Rosie
asked.
“Devil’s
work,” Mrs. Chapman whispered under her breath.
“They say the
same thing over and over again: the Tower.” She laid out a card for us to see.
When Mr. Iago
leaned in to look, I moved away. My skin crept having him so close. I took a
step toward the other end of the table and put my hand on Mrs. Chapman’s
shoulder. She patted my fingers. On the card Vella had laid out was the image
of a tower on fire, two naked people falling from it to the ground.
“What does it
mean?” Mama Rosie asked.
“The end of a
way of life. Chaos will pave the way in a new world for those who can survive
the destruction.”
“That’s
cheerful,” Red said.
Vella picked
the card back up. She looked up at me. “Can you let me know when you’re going
to head out? I’d like to caravan.”
I smiled and
nodded. I wasn’t really interested in her gloom and doom, but I sure didn’t
want to be on the road alone in a time like this.
Red, Neil, and
I headed back to the rides and started the breakdown process. It wasn’t easy
with just the three us, but Neil was good with the lift, and I had the
breakdown down pat. We had the tilt loaded onto the flatbed in no time.
“I’ve never
seen a girl as good with a wrench as you are, Cricket,” Red told me as we headed
over to the swings.
“Don’t hurt
none that my daddy put one in my hand about a minute after I was born,” I
replied with a laugh.
“I met your
daddy back in the 80’s. We worked Maverick Carnival together for about a year.”
“For real? I
didn’t know that.”
“Boy, your
daddy, there wasn’t a mark he couldn’t clean out or a townie whose eye he
couldn’t catch. I think your daddy was born for the carnie life.”
“He loved it.
That’s the truth,” I replied. I loved talking about my daddy. Since he’d died
three years ago, I felt so lonely for him. Anytime someone had a story to share
about him I was all ears.
Daddy had just
finally saved and borrowed enough to buy a used tilt-a-whirl when he started
looking a little red in the cheeks from time to time. My daddy had always been
a ride jockey, but now he would be a ride owner, and a “tilt man,” a title that
made him proud. He liked the idea of tweaking the ride, playing with the gears
and brakes. It was a dream for him. Not a month after getting the ride,
however, I found him lying dead of a heart attack. He’d been working on one of
the cars. Doctor said a life full of eating nothing but carnival food will do
that to you. I’d thought about leaving the carnival, but after my daddy had
worked so hard, I couldn’t. I became a tilt girl. The ride was like his living
memorial. Every time a child smiled or laughed on that ride, I knew my daddy
was smiling in heaven.
“I never did
meet your mama. You ever see her, Neil?”
Neil shook his
head. “Someone said you look like her, Crick.”
“Yeah, I
suppose so. I probably wouldn’t know her anymore. Last time I talked to her she
said she’d dyed her hair red,” I replied. My mom and dad had split when I was
young. She had married and started a new life. We rarely talked. She was like a
stranger to me. I didn’t think on her much.
We worked on
the swings. They were an easy break down, and we were done and packed in less
than two hours. The Big Eli, as we called the Ferris Wheel, was another story
altogether, and it was already after one in the morning.
“Let’s get it
first thing tomorrow,” Red said. “I’m feeling my bones.”
Relieved, I
nodded. I didn’t want the boys to know, but every muscle in my body was aching,
and Puck had started whining for his dinner an hour before. I wasn’t going to argue.
“Just knock in the mornin’,” I called to Red. “I’m over by the creek at the
edge of the west parking lot. Wasn’t room left in the back when I got here,” I
added.
“Well, that
will teach you not to play around in town next jump,” Red replied with a laugh,
and we went our separate ways, Neil and Red chatting as they went the other
direction.
Back in the
parking lot, I crawled into the cab of my truck, my home away from home. When I
was a game agent, I used to drive a small RV, but I needed a semi to haul the
tilt so I gave up my RV, managed to get a CDL license, and now lived in the cab
of my truck. It wasn’t too bad, and if it started to feel real tight, I would
stay in the bunk house.
I dug around
until I found a can of food for Puck. I placed a small bowl on the ground and
sat beside him, petting him while he ate, looking at the view. My spot by the
creek wasn’t bad. I could hear the sound of the rushing water. Besides, the
parking lot was dead. There wouldn’t be any noise.
After Puck had gobbled down
his meal, he jumped in the cab, and we snuggled together on the small cot
behind the seat. I pulled the curtain closed, and we called it a night.
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