Last Seen. Rick Mofina

the minutes that followed, Cal and Faith called the parents of Gage’s friends hoping that by some wild coincidence they were in fact also here, and maybe Gage had seen them and joined them.

      “Hey, Pam, it’s Faith. This is going to sound weird, but are you guys at the fair today?”

      “No, I’m home doing a wash. Dean’s with Colton at Walmart looking at fishing rods, or reels, or some man-thing. Why, what’s up?”

      Faith stifled her tears, cupping her hand to her face as she spun around in the chaos, seeing Cal on his phone, hearing him speaking to their friends the Thompsons.

      “Jack, any chance you, Michelle and Marshall are down here at the fair right now?” he was saying.

      Those calls and the others they’d made didn’t yield Gage, but their friends, shocked by the gravity of Gage’s disappearance, began mobilizing to come to the fairgrounds to help. Cal and Faith, both ashen-faced, watched from a few yards away as the search for Gage continued widening with great speed. There was one thing that could help.

      Cal called Stu Kroll, his editor at the Star-News.

      “It’s Cal again—listen—”

      “Hey, it’s okay, we caught it. Changed it to fifty. It’s all good.”

      “No, Stu, listen. Our son’s missing down here at the River Ridge fair.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I’m going to send you his picture and information from the police—”

      “The police?”

      “Yeah, it’s looking serious. We need to get the word out now. Would you guys put it up on the site and tweet it out?”

      “I—I’m not sure. I mean, you’re an employee—”

      “Please, Stu! Please! I’m sending it now. I gotta go.”

      Ripkowski and Berg had arranged for a River Ridge patrol car to park at the Hudsons’ house just in case Gage somehow made his way home. Cal and Faith contacted their nearest neighbors—Ethan’s parents, Sam and Rory Clark—who upon hearing the news immediately agreed to join the police at their house to watch for Gage.

      Meanwhile, the fairgrounds chief, Herb Dulka, had trotted to the chutes, phone pressed to his ear, joining Ripkowski and Berg, who’d waved in Vaughn King, while more police officers and other security people arrived.

      “We’ve circulated Gage’s picture force-wide,” Ripkowski said. “It’ll be up on social media any minute now, notifying everyone across Chicago, the state, the entire country. And I’ll talk to my supervisor to ensure we cover all our bases and look into possibly issuing an Amber Alert.”

      Dulka said, “We’ve given the photo to all our people on the grounds at the gates and in the parking lots and we’re starting the shutdown process for the announcement.”

      “Good.” Berg turned to King. “Our people and firefighters are going to search the attraction and we’re going to take statements from all of your people working it.”

      “Not a problem.” Vaughn nodded.

      “But first—” Ripkowski nodded to the Chambers “—what about your cameras in there? You got surveillance footage? It might show us something.”

      “Yes, we have cameras and we’re working on getting the footage but there’s a problem.”

      “What’s the problem?”

      “The playback’s frozen. The Chambers took a lightning strike last week when we were in Milwaukee and the system’s been skittish ever since.”

      “We need that footage,” Ripkowski said.

      “We’re working on it.”

      Near them the Polar Express emitted a hydraulic sigh as it slowed. Then the Zipper groaned to a halt as ride cycles ended and riders disembarked. People were kept off and the rides across the midway remained idle while everywhere the blaring rock music at each ride ceased.

      “Almost ready.” Dulka was on his phone, then nodded. “Okay, go!”

      A public address system awoke, screeching feedback, then a woman’s voice crackled through it with a message that came through loud and clear.

      “Attention everyone. We have an emergency. We’re looking for a little boy, Gage Hudson. He’s nine and he got separated from his folks near the Chambers of Dread a little while ago. Gage’s picture is up on the big screens. Please take a look now, then look around you. Gage, if you’re seeing this, go to any ticket booth, police officer or security person, and they’ll find your folks for you. Everyone, please look around your area for Gage and let’s get him back to his folks. Please, do it now—it’ll only take a moment. Thank you.”

      The chaos had been subdued and a somber air fell across the thousands of people at the River Ridge Fairgrounds. It was soon interrupted by the distant calling of people shouting, “Gage!” from various corners, as if engaged in a Marco Polo game. But it wasn’t long before the murmuring gave way to demands for the party to resume as some calls devolved into “Gage, you’re in deep shit!” and “Your mama’s gonna whip your ass, Gage!”

      During the fifteen minutes the midway was halted, no walkie-talkies crackled and no phones rang to end Cal and Faith’s agony. No one had spotted Gage. With each terrible, surreal second that passed, Cal and Faith felt their horrible fear increasing and their panic rising.

      It was all they could do to keep from falling off the earth.

       6

      Gage comes out of the portal with Faith and Cal, they pass the cloaked figure, move to the dungeons where hands claw at them; Gage’s eyes glow; the infrared images of the Hudsons are captured in shades of gray, black and radiant white; the Hudsons move through darkness; ahead and behind them other groups creep with trepidation: a man and woman holding hands, two teenage girls holding each other, their eyes and teeth blazing, moving beyond the phosphorescent flames of the burning witch, then the insane butcher, the fanged clown; some people are cowering, others are crouching in the cave of bats and spiders; Gage, Faith and Cal rush across the zombie graveyard pursued by the chain-saw maniac to the coffin doorway when they vanish in the sudden flash of a static snowstorm.

      “Play it again,” Ripkowski said.

      He was with Berg and Vaughn King in the cramped, dimly lit control room attached to the Chambers of Dread. They watched over Alma McCain’s shoulder as she operated the attraction’s console bank of infrared security cameras. A can of diet cola, a half-eaten slice of pizza and a Lord of the Flies paperback were next to her. Small TV screens displayed images for each section of the Chambers, but the system had malfunctioned for the final sets. Alma pecked at her keyboard, replayed the footage, but it was futile at the spinner.

      “This is where it freezes and won’t work. It’s given us trouble since the lightning strike in Milwaukee.”

      “Did you see anything unusual when you watched this live when the Hudsons went through?” Ripkowski asked Alma.

      “No, but to be honest, I wasn’t looking at the spinner at that time.”

      “Were you reading?”

      “No, I was not reading. I take my book with me on breaks.”

      “Did an emergency door alarm activate anywhere today?”

      Alma exchanged a quick glance with King before saying, “No.”

      “So—” Berg tapped her pen on the screen “—we’ve got four emergency exits and six exit chutes with no recorded video. Erik, what do you think?”

      “We need IT’s help to recover that footage if they can—either