As did his father.
As did Mr. Dark.
As did all the freaks.
As did the crowd.
The Witch screamed.
Jim, among the wax dummies, blew all the air from his lungs.
Will shrieked himself awake, on the platform.
The Illustrated Man let the air from his mouth in a great angry bray, whipping up his hands to stop all events. But the Witch fell. She fell off the platform. She fell in the dust.
The smoking rifle in his one good hand, Charles Halloway let his breath go slow, feeling every bit of it move from him. He still stared along the rifle sights at the target where the woman had been.
At the platform rim, Mr. Dark looked down at the screaming crowd and what they were screaming about.
"She's fainted--"
"No, she slipped!"
"She's ... shot!"
At last Charles Halloway came to stand by the Illustrated Man, looking down. There were many things in his face: surprise, dismay, and some small strange relief and satisfaction.
The woman was lifted and put on the platform. Her mouth was frozen open, almost with a look of recognition.
He knew she was dead. In a moment, the crowd would know. He watched the Illustrated Man's hand move down to touch, trace, feel for life. Then Mr. Dark lifted both her hands, like a doll, in some marionette strategy, to give her motion. But the body refused.
So he gave one of the Witch's arms to the Dwarf, the other to the Skeleton, and they shook and moved them in a ghastly semblance of reawakening as the crowd backed.
"... dead ..."
"But ... there's no wound."
"Shock, you think?"
Shock, thought Charles Halloway, my God, did that kill her? Or the other bullet? When I fired the shot, did she suck the other bullet down her throat? Did she ... choke on my smile! Oh, Christ!
"It's all right! Show's over! Just fainted!" said Mr. Dark. "All an act! All part of the show," he said, not looking at the woman, not looking at the crowd, but looking at Will, who stood blinking around, out of one nightmare and fresh into the next as his father stood with him and Mr. Dark cried: "Everyone home! Show's over! Lights! Lights!"
The carnival lights flickered.
The crowd, herded before the failing illumination, turned like a great carousel, and as the lamps dimmed, hustled toward the few remaining pools of light as if to warm themselves there before braving the wind. One by one, one by one, the lights indeed were going off.
"Lights!" said Mr. Dark.
"Jump!" said Will's father.
Will jumped. Will ran with his father who still carried the weapon that had fired the smile that had killed the Gypsy and put her to dust.
"Is Jim in there?"
They were at the maze. Behind them, on the platform, Mr. Dark bellowed: "Lights! Go home! All over! Done!"
"Is Jim in there?" wondered Will. "Yes. Yes, he is!"