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His opponent who didn't even howl, but now only squealed, still made himself move one hand from his eyes and tried to seize the boy. Gregory quickly jumped aside. The enemy heavily moved forward, blindly ran into a column, started aside and, having lost his balance, fell down from the arbor porch to the snow outside. Gregory leaped onto his back like a wildcat. The previous wounds were only superficial, but now Greg, having seized with one hand Santa's hair from which the red cap had fallen, with the full force of his other arm, pricked and cut the hated neck. The enemy vainly tried moving his hands back to get rid of the little devil tormenting him. When one of his hands, which already lost a mitten, brushed Greg's face, the boy with all his strength sank his teeth into the enemy's finger (his mouth was immediately bit by acid).

The prostrated enemy didn't shout any more but only rattled and gurgled. His movements became more and more languid. At last, having ascertained that the opponent was already weak enough, Gregory arduously turned the heavy body on its back and unbuttoned the blood-sticky red jacket. Under it there was a gray sweater; Greg cut it, then a T-shirt, and bared pale skin and the left nipple from which a long black hair grew. The heart, as much as he knew, was a bit lower. A cut throat is good, but the procedure should be completed. Not without reason he had refused his initial idea to use an ordinary knife and, using a hammer and a file, had made a thin silver blade from the biggest spoon in his parents fine dinner set (luckily his parents hadn't noticed its disappearance ahead of time). A wooden handle from a toy sword suited to this knife excellently.

Certainly, no books explained how to kill Santa Claus. But if silver helps against werewolves and vampires, why won't it help in this case also? Certainly, Gregory didn't believe in were
wolves and vampires. But mum said that legends contains particles of the truth in a fantastic form. Stabbing the heart played an important role in these legends, too.

Greg felt in the snow his fallen eyeglasses and put them back on his nose. Then, having sat astride the belly of the dying enemy, he clasped the knife handle with both hands, raised them high over his head and plunged the knife into the naked breast. The body under him convulsively jerked and uttered one more rattling. The boy with an effort pulled out his knife and struck once again. And then again, and again, and again...

Then there were policemen running through snow, led by sergeant Jills; and two strangers in FBI jackets; and a doctor who hastily examined and palpated him right on the scene and clicked his tongue with astonishment, looking at the red-and-white corpse; and mum who nearly fainted and to whom several voices simultaneously hastily explained that the boy was unscathed and all this blood was not his; and some guys with a microphone and a videocam at whom all others shouted and tried to banish them, while they shouted back about the right of Americans to the information...

Blood was cleaned off Greg (at least as much as possible on the first try ), and they embraced him, squeezed, tapped on his shoulder, shook his hands and all the time spoke, saying that everything was OK, that everything would be OK now, that he was a good brave boy, that he had done perfectly well and that he shouldn't blame himself for the death of this man because he was a very-very bad man who had killed many children already...

Gregory Prime didn't listen to all this chatter. He understood the main thing–the real Santa Claus does not exist and so harmony returned to his soul at last. The pleasant feeling of this harmony was only amplified by two circumstances. First, his plane, his battle trophy, which miraculously wasn't harmed during the fight–and whatever one may say, the bomber was excellent. And secondly, while lovingly moving his finger on its wings and fuselage, he continued recalling how warm blood fountained from his enemy's throat, how his groans choked with rattle, how the knife elastically stuck into the hated body and how it, clamped by Greg's legs, convulsed under the blows...

Fake Santa was right–he liked it.

Oh yes, he really liked it.

CAVE OF HORROR

“
A carnival is in town,” joyfully exclaimed Jane.

Mike received this news without any enthusiasm. Even in his childhood he hadn't been a fan of carnival rides, especially those that fling their passengers upside down, back and forth, and in other bone-rattling directions. Once, when his classmates dared him to go for a spin on a roller coaster, he very painfully hit his tailbone in the bottom point of the trajectory. There were, of course, calmer rides but Mike found them just boring; actually, usually only little kids rode them. Even an early age he preferred playing board games or assembling model cars or airplanes to vis
iting an amusement park. All the more he didn't see any sense in visiting a carnival now, at his respectable age of twenty-two.

His girlfriend, alas, had the opposite point of view. And therefore, having indifferently muttered in reply, "So what?" Mike already knew perfectly well what was coming next.

"Let's go there Saturday!" Jane met his expectations.

"Maybe we could go to the movies instead?" Mike offered without any real hope.

"We always go to the movies. And besides, what's playing? Are they showing anything interesting this week?”

"I don't know. I haven't looked yet. Maybe something good is on.”

"I'm sure they're showing the same old junk. Mikey, don't be so boring! I want to go to the carnival! We can go to the movies anytime, but the carnival is here for only a little while.”

"Where are they from?”

"Dunno. From somewhere far away. They must have rides we've never been on!”

"Aha, that's it–'from far away.' These traveling carnivals are even worse than stationary amusement parks. In each new place they put together all these rides, then take them apart them again. As a result, at some point something becomes loose, a screw isn't tightened and... Last year the newspapers reported there was an accident on a ride in Connecticut. Three people were injured and about twenty more dangled on the very top for two hours, waiting until they could be rescued from there.”

"So what, traffic accidents happen much more often–does that mean we shouldn't drive cars?”

"If we don't go by car, we'll have to go on foot. But if we don't climb on some doubtful rotating machinery, we can spend the money for something better.”

"Just admit that you are afraid," Jane continued to badger him. "And not of accidents. You're afraid of the rides!”

"Why do you say I'm afraid? I simply don't understand what pleasure it is to dangle upside down...”

"Well, don't ride with me. Just stand nearby and wait if you are such a little coward," she affectedly sighed. "You can hold my purse.”

"Listen to you being all brave! " Mike lost his patience. "Remember our trip to New York? You dragged me to Coney Is
land and there–to those, what were they called– 'Air races' with airplanes that flipped over... And who was vomiting even before that ride stopped?”

"I shouldn't have eaten those cakes before I got on the ride," Jane waved away his complaint. "And I took it into account for the future. But does it mean that I should stay off rides the rest of my life because I got sick once?”

Mike had understood from the very beginning that resistance was useless and, as one could expect, two days later–11 a.m. Saturday–he and Jane entered the carnival area, which was enclosed by a high chain link fence.

Long ago in this not too cozy suburban place had been a meat factory combined with a slaughterhouse; however business was bad and it eventually burned out in the most literal sense: one night it was destroyed by flames. There was gossip that the fire had been set either by some animal rights fanatics or by the fact
ory owner himself who decided to cash in at least on the insurance. It was also rumored that there were several casualties, though only one was known for sure–the night watchman. Possibly, rumors were promoted by the large number of charred bones found in the ashes–which was no wonder, considering the type of factory it had been. The burned-out buildings were beyond repair and for a time, despite the fence and strict “keep out” signs, they remained an attractive place for the town's boys who were looking for adventure, creepy stories and dismal souvenirs like chains and meat hooks or the aforementioned charred bones–until one of these boys fell down into the basement and broke his backbone. His friends were frightened and ran away and the boy lay there in dirty ice-cold water for almost a day before the search began. When he was finally rescued, he was still alive and conscious–but the way he looked made even hard-boiled police officers shudder: while the kid was lying there paralyzed and helpless, rats gnawed his face and almost completely chewed off his fingers.

What became of the ill-fated boy was unclear. Some said that he died in the hospital of blood poisoning. Others said that doctors saved him, but, as they added, mournfully shaking their heads, "It would have been better for him if he had died, much better.” It was known for sure only that soon after his accident his family left town.

This terrible story–and the mass outrage of the town's parents caused by it—made the city authorities demolish the scorched ruins at last. The grounds remained vacant for many years, enclosed by a chain link fence; the tin plates fastened to it which promised a penalty for trespassing and for garbage dumping rusted and peeled off so badly that their stern warnings became almost unreadable. Several times the site was offered for sale, but the town's businessmen, knowing its history, weren't eager to set up their businesses there. Over the years, however, the gloomy story of the meat factory was remembered less and less and many young people of the new generation, including Jane (who had just reached her eighteenth birthday), never even heard about it. And now, apparently, the grounds were leased to the traveling carnival.

The idea to come here in the morning also belonged to Jane, as she hoped that mornings would have fewer visitors. And she had been right–the carnival was almost deserted. Most likely, the reason was not so much the almost-forgotten reputation of the grounds as much as the cloudy and windy weather and the lack of advertizing. There were no lines to get on any of the rides, but it was necessary to wait for another reason: the workers didn't want to run their whirligigs and cars half-empty and wouldn't start the rides before a number of customers had gathered.

This didn't discourage Jane. Nothing prevented her from chatting cheerfully with Mike, who of course wasn't content with the role of purse keeper and willy-nilly accompanied her on her dizzying rides. The young people consistently paid their tribute to all spinning and twisting units, excluding only the simplest carrousels for little kids (but, certainly, including "Sky Ship" on the long bar which made the loops so disliked by Mike; at the top point, hanging upside down in an open cabin, Jane shrieked, and then began to laugh loudly; Mike only nervously squeezed the safety bar and thought "when will this end?”); practiced in accuracy, shooting with air-rifles and crossbows and throwing balls in a ring; tried to walk inside transparent plastic spheres floating in a pool (it turned out, naturally, not so much walking as falling); made a "space flight" in a cabin with a screen, which was shaking and heeling in all directions according to the action on the screen; ate cotton candy and popcorn; were photographed dressed as pirates and cowboys with the corresponding scenery in the background; wriggled in front of fun house mirrors and...

"Well, looks like we've done everything here," Mike uttered, glancing towards the exit.

"Wait," Jane objected, once again stopping at the carnival map near the cash booth. "Hmm, it does look like everything," she disappointedly concluded.

"So, let's leave?”

"First I need to pee," declared Jane; she didn't trouble herself with euphemisms like "to powder my nose." Having found the restroom icon on the map, she resolutely moved in the chosen direction.

Mike didn't have the same need. While cola was sold at the carnival, it was ice cold, and on this overcast day Mike hadn't wanted any, while Jane drank up a big plastic cup. So he remained in place, absent-mindedly looking around. By 3 p.m., the carnival gradually had become filled with visitors. They were mostly par
ents with little children or they were small companies of boys about twelve or thirteen years old. Adult guys with their girlfriends, like Mike and Jane, were still rare–they would come closer to the evening... Reacting to the increase in visitors, disguised barkers appeared in the thin crowd. One of them, a fat clown with a red smile drawn on his white face, seemed to feel Mike's gaze from a distance of several yards and suddenly turned to him, conspiratorially winked and beckoned him with a finger.

Mike politely smiled as if to say, “Thanks, mister, but I already visited your tent.” The clown nodded as if he understood, turned and moved away, but then looked back and beckoned again.

"What does he want from me?" Mike wondered and even looked back, checking whether there was somebody behind him to whom the clown had been gesturing. But he didn't see anybody looking towards the clown. Mike looked towards where the clown had been, but didn't see him any longer–probably the barker had disappeared behind the backs of the walking visitors or entered the nearest tent. Very well, let him disappear. There was something unpleasant about this character, though Mike couldn't say what exactly. However, he had disliked clowns since his childhood, finding their appearance not at all funny but ugly.