J Barba books

The Carnaval

“It said sixty minutes, but it’s taking forever,” said Pam, lifting her sunglasses to squint at her watch.

“I swear we got here more than an hour ago.” She brushed her curly red hair away from her face for the hundredth time. The Florida sun wasn’t just hot—it was suffocating

“Got a claw-clip I can use?”

“Let me see…” Levy dug into her purse, sifting through a tube of red lipstick she realized was about to melt and make a mess in her purse, and a battered mascara wand. “I told you, we should’ve gotten the express pass.” She handed over a clip with a smirk. “Here you go.”

The line for Runaway Train coiled back and forth across the blurry pavement. The ride—a high-speed indoor coaster that looped and twisted in the dark—was one of the park’s biggest attractions. According to what Levy had read online, it was a “ten-out-of-ten thrill experience.” Not that the heat or the crawling line helped the hype.

Around them, people hid behind sunglasses, hats, and caps that offered more psychological than actual relief. Still, more guests joined the line, unaware of what was brewing just beyond those coaster doors.

Pam and Levy stood about halfway through when they noticed something odd.

“It’s been a while since this line moved,” said Pam.

Levy tilted her head. “Yeah… you’re right. It’s completely stalled.”

From inside the building, screams rose—at first, the kind you’d expect from a roller coaster. But then they changed. Louder. Harsher. Sharp, high-pitched.

“At least someone’s having fun,” said Pam.

A man burst through the ride’s entrance, staggering. His shredded rabbit costume was soaked in something dark and wet. “They bit me!” he shouted.

Pam and Levy froze.

The crowd didn’t react at first—confused, hesitant. Then, someone screamed and panic spread like a forest fire.

People shoved against the chains of the queue, tripping over the dividers. Some dropped drinks, strollers toppled, hats went flying. Everyone scattered, running without knowing why.

“What’s going on?” Pam asked, grabbing Levy’s arm.

“I don’t know, but that guy—he needs help,” Levy said, stepping forward.

Then Pam saw it.

A blur of white fur—once part of a costume—matted in blood. Arms, wrapped around the rabbit man from behind. The teeth—she wouldn’t be able to unsee, sunk deep into the rabbit man’s neck.

Red spilled and sprayed across the pavement.

Pam could move, her jaw hung. This wasn’t part of the ride.

Not a scare actor.

Not a prank.

Not a drill.

Just the beginning.

To be continued...