AFTER

by Kelly, Ronald

  Numb Nuts nodded nervously. "Right."

  "The valve to the water main is on the far left side of the basement. Down the stairs, turn it back on, then up and out onto the street. Simple as that."

  "Yeah," muttered Anderson. "Simple as that."

  A minute later, Waco was opening the utility door that lead to the basement of the train station. It was pitch dark below. There was no need to try the light switch; Waco knew the power was out. He took a small Maglite from his jeans pocket and directed its beam down the stairway. Together, the two men descended into the cellar.

  They soon found themselves in a long basement full of crates and plastic totes. "There's the valve yonder," Waco told Numb Nuts. He directed the beam at the thick network of pipes with the red cut-on/cut-off wheel at their junction. "Come on."

  The two made their way toward the water valve. Halfway there, Waco shined his light on the floor. The beam revealed an ugly brownish-red stain on the concrete. "That's where Taylor bought the farm," said the Texan.

  Numb Nuts swallowed dryly and averted his eyes. The last thing he needed to think about right now was some maniac popping out of the shadows and mistaking him for a stick of firewood on a chopping block.

  They reached the valve. Waco twisted it until he heard the thrum of water pressure returning to normal. As an afterthought, he took a wrench from his pocket and, unloosening the nut on the red wheel, removed it entirely. Waco stuck the cut-off wheel inside his wife-beater undershirt and let it slide down to his ribs. "There. They're gonna find it damn hard to pull this prank the next time they get the urge."

  Surprisingly, they made it back to the top of the stairs unmolested. "I don't like this… not a'tall." Waco told him. "Expect the worse on the street. They didn't turn off that water for nothing. They're here somewhere. I can feel it."

  The sky had lightened a bit from when they had first entered the train station. Waco waved his flashlight in a slow arc, signaling to T.P. that they were homeward bound. In response, T.P. signaled back with a flashlight of his own.

  Cautiously, Waco and Numb Nuts started down the street. Anderson had the scattergun leveled from his hip, ready to mow down anything that moved. Waco had the compound bow in hand, a four-bladed razor arrow secured against the nylon cord. A quiver of eleven more just like it hung over his back, while four pounds of blued-steel .44 hung directly under his left arm, ready to come into play at a moment's notice.

  They were halfway down the length of Main Street when it happened. A hangman's noose fashioned from heavy rope dropped down from a shop overhang, encircling Numb Nut's throat and hauling him off his feet. "Waco!" he squeaked, choking as the noose grew tight, constricting his windpipe. He bucked and struggled, dropping the shotgun. It hit the street, the walnut stock splintering with the impact.

  Waco whirled and saw the man dangling a good two feet off the ground.

  He was starting back to help him, when he heard footsteps pounding the cobblestones behind him.

  The Texan turned and saw a pirate with an eye patch coming at him, a wicked-looking sword in his hand. He pulled the arrow into line and released the string. The projectile split the buccaneer's sternum, went through his heart, then exited between his fourteenth and fifteenth vertebrae. The arrow traveled onward, catching another pirate square in the solar plexus as the shaft lost momentum and dropped. Even still, the razored head punched a hole in the bundle of nerves and lodged itself in the cartilage of his spine.

  Waco shucked another arrow from the quiver, positioned it, and spun in his tracks. He was shocked to find a couple of dozen pirates, princesses, cowboys, and revolutionary soldiers coming down the street straight for him.

  As they moved in mass, a couple of safari hunters wheeled a huge hibachi grill from the doorway of a restaurant, while two Arabian sultans in turbans and sashes began stripping the clothing from Numb Nuts. Soon he was completely naked except for his boxers and socks. A witch in a black cloak grinned viciously and, pulling a long, curved knife from her sleeve, began to peel the flesh from the thighs of his legs.

  The man screamed long and loud. "Waco! Help me… oh, God, please help me!"

  Waco shifted his aim and put the arrow through the socket of Witch's left eye. The woman dropped to the ground, taking the knife and a long sliver of Anderson's leg meat with her. A princess in a pink sequined gown stepped in, though, and, retrieving the knife, continued where the old hag had left off, carving the man's hairy calves like a Thanksgiving turkey.

  Knowing the bow was too slow a weapon, Waco slung it over his shoulder and grabbed for the long-barreled Smith & Wesson. At the same moment, a pirate stepped in and ran his broad sword across Waco's abdomen. Luckily, it grated against the water valve wheel the Texan had stashed in his undershirt. Waco swung the big gun wide, shattering the pirate's nose with its barrel, then finished him off with a hollow point slug between the eyes. The slug expanded with impact, leaving only a jagged piece of lower jaw and neck bone amid a spouting gorge of crimson.

  Where the shit are you, T.P.? thought Waco frantically. Take a shot, dammit! Take a shot!

  As if in answer, a brittle crack sounded and half the throat of a revolutionary soldier disintegrated. Waco took a flash grenade from his belt, closed his eyes, and hurled it at the street. It went off in an explosion of light and sound, blinding those around him. When Waco opened his eyes, they stood around, arms thrown over their faces. He took the opportunity to blast five more with the Magnum, then reload with a speed-loader. A Nutjob dressed up like an Indian warrior ran at him blindly, wielding a tomahawk in his hand. The man instantly reminded him of the Cherokee who had massacred his only child.

  "Bad choice of costume, you sumbitch!" As the Indian leapt forward, Waco jammed the barrel of the Magnum into his open mouth and fired, blowing out the back of his head in a shower of brain and skull fragments.

  He didn't escape the lunatic's attack entirely, however. The tomahawk swung downward powerfully, glancing off the side of the Texan's skull, peeling away scalp and cutting off his right ear.

  "Damn!" cussed Waco. He grabbed and threw another bomb. Then, after the flash, he dropped to his knees on the ground and located his ear. He stuck it in his hip pocket for safe-keeping.

  As the Nutjobs stumbled around blindly, T.P. picked them off like sitting ducks. Waco was impressed by the accuracy of the nerd's aim. He made a mental note to congratulate him on a job well done… if he got out of this shit alive. As he ran toward Numb Nuts – whose legs were no more than bloody bones now – he traded his Smith & Wesson for his seven-inch Ka-Bar. He slashed his way past several pirates and princesses, then reached the spot where Numb Nuts hung, a pool of widening blood staining the stones beneath him.

  "Lord Jesus… give me wings!" he shouted, then leapt upward. He swung the combat knife and, miraculously, parted the rope over Anderson's head, eight feet from street level.

  As the man hit the ground heavily, the denuded bones of his legs shattering beneath his weight, Waco turned toward the two big-game hunters and the hibachi. Strips of leg flesh already sizzled on the grate. He gave the grill a good, swift kick, sending hot charcoal onto the hunters' khaki outfits. Their clothing burst into flames. Shrieking, they stood there like two lanky scarecrows ablaze.

  Waco knelt and grabbed Numb Nuts under the arms. "I got you, hoss. We're heading home."

  The man simply moaned, his eyes transfixed. He was in shock. His mutilated legs spouted blood in a steady stream. Waco knew there was no hope for him, no way to fix what the Nutjobs had done to him. But at least he might get the chance to see Lady Bird and Bratzilla one more time before giving up the ghost.

  With a cry of exertion, Waco pulled Anderson's dead weight across his back and started, step by faltering step, down Main Street. The Nutjobs had thinned out quite a bit, some fleeing, while others stumbled around half blind from the flash bombs.

  As Waco made the long, hard journey toward the Fortress, T.P. picked off the lunatics, one at a time. That a boy, Fo
ur-Eyes, thought the Texan. You've just earned a lifetime membership in the Society of Bad-Ass Rednecks.

  Before he knew it, Waco was at the side entrance. With a grunt, he lowered Numb Nuts to the ground and glanced behind him. There was no sign of the Nutjob Brigade. They had really taken a beating that morning. But there were more. Plenty more.

  "They'll be pissed and ready for blood, Numb Nuts," he told the car salesman. "We gotta get you well and ready for battle. Then we'll wipe 'em clean once and for all."

  He looked down at the man and instantly knew that his words were wasted. Roger Anderson was dead. His face and upper body were ghastly pale. Apparently he had bled out completely between the ambush point and the Fortress.

  Exhausted, Waco sat down next to the man's body. "I'm sorry, hoss," he said, patting Anderson's clammy shoulder. "I'm sorry I let you down."

  Suddenly, Waco felt faint himself. He looked down and discovered that his entire right side was saturated with blood from the ugly wounds in the side of his head. He heard hurried steps running down the stairs beyond the wooden door, but passed out before they arrived.

  "Does it hurt, sugar dumpling?" asked Trixie, heavy on the baby talk.

  "Hell yeah, it hurts!" grumbled Waco. "I had my frigging ear hacked off. That ain't no damn paper cut, you know."

  "But I sewed it back on okay, didn't I?"

  "The second time," the Texan told her. "The first time you sewed it on upside-down."

  "Can I get you something? Aspirin? A cold compress?"

  Waco smiled. "A nice blowjob might help take my mind off of it for a while."

  T.P. shook his head. "Looks like he's back to normal."

  "I'd whup your ass right now, T.P… if you hadn't saved mine."

  "You're welcome," said the nerd, unsure of whether he had been properly thanked or not.

  "Why don't you eat some of your barbecue, Sweetie?" suggested Trixie, continuing to fuss over him. "I made a special sauce that livens it up right nicely."

  Waco scowled at the heap of shredded meat that garnished his plate. "Well, you don't wanna liven it up too much, you know." He dipped a fork into the barbecue and took a tentative bite. Not bad. Not too danged bad at all.

  Across the table, Lady Bird hovered over Bratzilla. "Come on, sweetheart," she urged gently. "Eat your yummy barbeque." After the demise of her overbearing husband, Mrs. Anderson had become more outgoing and less of a stick in the mud. She almost glowed, in fact.

  "I don't wanna!" protested her picky son. "It's yucky. It tastes…"

  Familiar? thought Waco.

  "Funny. Where'd it come from, anyway?"

  Everyone at the table looked at one another.

  "It came from a big old greasy pig," said Lady Bird. She shoveled it in like she was half-starved. "This sauce is absolutely delicious, Trixie. Could you give me the recipe?"

  "Sure, darling," Trixie told her, flattered. "The secret is in the vinegar and brown sugar…"

  Waco frowned and continued to eat. He chewed continuously on something tough and gristly. But what the hell was it?

  A numb nut perhaps?

  "You know," said T.P. smothering his plate with sauce and forking a mouthful of meat into his mouth. "It's a fallacy that you contract sleeping sickness through the practice of cannib –"

  Waco picked up his revolver and pointed it at the nerd. "Just shut up and eat your damn supper, will you?"

  The Texan swallowed the rubbery morsel and belched. And for a moment, he was certain that he detected the distinct aftertaste of Old Spice.

  POPSICLE MAN

  They listened.

  "Do you think he's coming?" asked Heather.

  "Shhhh!" Scott warned. "Just be quiet, will you?"

  Together, their ears strained for sound. They hoped and prayed to hear the music. But instead of the heralding of salvation, they only heard the steady approach of damnation. Maniacal laughter and the honking of bicycle horns.

  "They're getting closer," she whispered. "What're we gonna do?"

  The twelve-year-old thought. He considered ducking into the burnt-out hull of the elementary school, but dismissed that idea. The thought of being trapped in a maze of empty classrooms with those sick bastards didn't appeal to him at all.

  The trumpets of doom sounded again.

  HONK-A HONK-A! HONK-A HONK-A!

  Loud and urgent. Like Harpo Marx from Hell.

  "They're gaining on us!" whimpered the nine-year-old.

  Scott stopped long enough to grab her by the shoulders and look her squarely in the eyes. "Listen to me. Whatever happens… no matter how bad it gets… never cry. Don't give them the satisfaction. If you do, it's like blood to sharks. They'll tear you apart."

  The girl's lip quivered a second longer, then stopped. "Okay."

  "You promise?"

  "I promise."

  "Come on," he urged, grabbing her by the hand. "We'll stay out here in the open. It'll give us more of a fighting chance… just in case he doesn't show up."

  Somewhere behind them, something howled. Not a dog… more like someone attempting to sound like one.

  Together, they ran across the scorched expanse of the playground, their pockets jingling with the sound of loose coins.

  It was a dark time for children.

  Following the Burn, every sex offender on the face of the earth had seemed to declare open season. Every child molester who had once masqueraded as an ordinary citizen – daycare teachers, soccer coaches, Boy Scout leaders, priests – had cast off their masks of respectability and took full advantage of the deteriorating situation.

  Some worked solo, but many formed tribes; factions like the

  Baby Boppers, the Candymen, and the Short-Eyes Brigade. You could tell the preference of a Teddy-Bare by the collection of tiny teddy bear tattoos they wore on their face: pink for a girl, blue for a boy.

  The worse of the tribes were the Clownies. Perverted sons of bitches in white makeup, red rubber noses, and multi-colored hair. They weren't only sick, they were damned sadistic. The Clownies specialized in prolonged pain and suffering. They used straight razors and battery acid, and got off on begging and pleading for mercy… which was never granted.

  Scott Kersey had been dodging those bozos for the better part of a month now. There had been several close calls, especially that horrifying five minutes in the basement of an abandoned church, but so far he had eluded their sick intentions. But it was only a matter of time before they outwitted him. They knew who he was, especially the leader, and he knew they were hungry and gunning for him.

  He had come across Heather a couple of days before. She had been wandering the back alleys of the city, scared and dirty, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and toting a pink Hanna Montana backpack. She said she had been on her own for three weeks. Scott had a hard time swallowing that. Atlanta was a hotbed for rape and torture. It was a miracle she had survived for such a long period of time.

  But now that time was coming to an end.

  Or, perhaps not, if only he would come.

  The acrid stench of burnt earth filled their nostrils as their feet pounded the across the blackened grass of the playground. There was a rumor going around that a Clownie had been responsible for torching Atlanta. A clown named Sherman with a flamethrower and a hatred for Southerners. Scott recalled something his father, a history teacher, had once told him. "History repeats itself." In this case, it sure as hell did.

  He drove his thoughts away from his home and family. Scott had been away at summer camp when the Burn had gone down. He remembered how his mother had pouted when they had dropped him off at the camp near Valdosta, how she simply didn't "feel right" about him being there on the Fourth of July. "We should all be together during the holidays," she had told him. He and his father had rolled their eyes and shrugged off her concerns, the way guys did in the face of female intuition.

  But then guys can be shortsighted and stupid sometimes.

  The morning after the Burn, the summer camp had turned
into total chaos. The counselors had abandoned them, leaving to find their own families. Scott and eight other boys headed north to Atlanta. They had lost three of their party to a tribe of violet-hued cannibals – the Purple People-Eaters – near Macon. Before it was over with, Scott had been the only one who had made it there alive.

  Just thinking about going home made him want to cry. Scott had found the house empty, the SUV missing, and his mom and dad gone. Thinking that they might have headed into the city for some crazy reason, he had done the same… and had regretted it ever since.

  The howl of the Hound jolted him back into reality. They were closer now. Much closer. The tracker was damn good. The Clownies had found – or made – a good bloodhound. Obviously, it was due to Clymaraine, a cocaine substitute that had a peculiar side-effect… the enhancement of one's sense of smell, a dozen times stronger than an actual dog's.

  "Over there," Scott whispered. "Behind the seesaws."

  Heather nodded, breathing too hard to speak. Together, they ran passed the rusted swings and slide, and crouched behind a bank of three seesaws. They watched silently as forms emerged from the darkness: tall and short, fat and thin. Some rode unicycles, while the rest traveled on foot. They could hear the slap, slap, slap of their big, floppy shoes as they ran.

  Scott thought it would have been pretty funny if they had arrived in one of those little clown cars… the kind that gave birth to a dozen or so when it came screeching to a stop. But on second thought, such a spectacle wouldn't have held any humor at all. There was nothing funny about a parade of child rapists popping out of a third-scale VW Bug.

  "We know you're there, Scotty Boy," echoed a familiar voice, loud and obnoxious with a hint of a Southern drawl. "Come on out and play."

  Scott felt sick to his stomach. It was the leader, a Clownie named Gacy. He had named himself after a serial killer with a fetish for white greasepaint and young boys. As a bank of clouds moved slowly eastward, the moon shown, casting pale light upon Gacy and his legion. He was grossly overweight, perhaps three hundred pounds or more, wearing a long, multi-colored overcoat and candy-cane striped pants. Below a curly rainbow wig, his pudgy face stood out in the moonlight, ghastly pale, one side of his mouth painted into a smile, the other into a frown.