Never Fear

by William F. Nolan

  She remembered running—and leaving Ryan behind—from the Clown Man’s house. She remembered she had made one left turn, so at the first intersection, she made a right. She found the sidewalk, and carefully made her way, house by house. Traveling slowly, step by step, eyes on the light just ahead of her feet. No sense looking up ahead. She wouldn’t be able to see anything anyway.

  Is this it? kept running through her mind. She’d stop and look, try to recall what the house had looked like. A front door, a porch, okay, that was a start.

  Then she stopped. Her—no, Ryan’s jogging stroller lay on its side on a front lawn. She ducked behind a tree, shut her light off and scoped out the house.

  No lights, but that doesn’t mean anything.

  She glanced at the baby stroller. Why would he just leave it there? Maybe he didn’t need the stroller.

  Just what was in it.

  Then another, darker thought.

  Could it be bait?

  He had seen both Callie and Jake. Did he want them too? Her thoughts flashed back to Jake, alone, helpless. This is stupid. I should just go back. Jake needs me. But another look at the stroller silenced those ideas. Ryan had needed her too.

  Might still need her.

  She stayed low and made her way around the side of the house. There was no fence, so she was able to keep close to the house, moving beneath the dark windows. She rounded the corner and found herself in a small backyard. The plants were overgrown, and she had to push away some sopping branches as she made her way closer.

  A small concrete patio, three steps up to the back door. The house was small, maybe two bedrooms. She would have to be so quiet.

  In the Dragon’s Den

  The rain had stopped completely now, and some stars peeked through a hole in the clouds. It was getting lighter.

  Several boxes sat on the ground beside the steps. The contents glinted in the cast of her light. Bottles. Lots and lots of empty bottles.

  As she reached a shaky hand for the handle—What are you doing?—a slight hesitation, but she had to be sure. For Ryan. For Ryan. The door was unlocked and the knob turned easily. She pushed the door open an inch and waited. Another inch. Still nothing. She pushed it open a bit more and slid in, still staying low. She gently closed the door behind her, but not all the way.

  Might have to make a quick exit.

  The smell was foul. The smell of spoiled meat. Of sweat. Of stale cigarette smoke. Of madness. But after what she’d smelled earlier tonight, it wasn’t so bad.

  She took a chance and turned her flashlight on, again masking the glow with her fingers.

  Something twisted beneath her foot and she heard a faint jingle. She shone the light at the floor. A small collar. Pink, with a bell on it. And another one, beside it, this one bigger, with a metal name tag shaped like a bone. A green collar, larger. And a red one, the tags gleaming in the light.

  What is all this? She asked herself. But she knew.

  She peered over the top of the counter and choked on a scream. The counter was littered with bones. Tiny bones from cats, birds, larger leg bones and ribs from dogs and who knew what else.

  You know what it is.

  Three skulls placed in a row on a plate, their empty eye sockets regarding her solemnly. On the other counter, a key chain. His hammer. The skin of a dog hung from the back of a chair. And on the kitchen table—oh no—tiny clothes. A little pair of shorts. A onesie. A boy’s T-shirt. And the shoes. So many, it seemed.

  Callie had never wanted anything so badly than to leave that house right then and there, and in many ways, it would have been better if she had. But she couldn’t. She had to find Ryan. Or what’s left of him. Keeping low, she looked over the clothing again. Nothing looked familiar.

  She took notice of her surroundings. Sheets covering the windows. A couch. Boxes of liquor bottles—these full, unopened—stacked along the wall behind the couch. Dead rats, many crushed, littered the floor. A pile of clothes beside the couch. Empty cans of food, soda, beer, piles of cigarette cartons. And what were those? She moved the beam.

  Magazines, DVDs. So many. Stacks of them. She moved closer.

  Oh my God.

  Sex movies. Porno magazines. She hadn't seen much in the brief glare of her light, but it was enough.

  I shouldn't be here.

  The dark hallway beckoned. She reached into her pocket and grasped the handle of the knife. A quick flash of her light showed three doors. One, on the right, was partially open. One farther down on the left had a padlock on it. At the end of the hall, another closed door.

  Her heart pounded so loudly she thought it would give her away. She walked quietly, carefully. Staying close to the wall. Three doors. If Ryan was here, where would he be?

  What’s that?

  A noise. A growl? Is there a dog in here? She pulled the carving knife out of her pocket and unwrapped it. She waited. The sound repeated and she relaxed her hold on the knife.

  Snoring. Someone snoring. Someone big snoring.

  Not someone. The Clown Man.

  Walking so quietly, so carefully, practically levitating, it felt like, she passed by the doorway without incident. A sidelong glance revealed only darkness and a foul odor. The snoring at least was a good thing, she told herself.

  As long as he’s snoring, he’s asleep, and I know where he is.

  But what if he stopped snoring?

  Shut up, shut up. Just keep walking.

  She glanced at the door on the left, the one with the padlock, but kept going. She wouldn’t be able to get in there. The farthest room first.

  What She Found in the Bathroom

  A few more steps and she reached the door. It was unlocked. The handle was stiff, and it turned with an audible click that made Callie wince. She gently pushed the wooden door open, and keeping the flashlight low, she swept it across the room. A bathroom. Filthy. Dark stains all over the floor. The toilet seat up. The smell was worse in here, dank and sour. With her knife hand she pulled her shirt up over her mouth and nose and stepped in a little further.

  A window over the bathtub, allowing what little light there was to weakly penetrate this foul space. Boxes stacked along one wall. More alcohol. And soda. Once water stopped flowing through pipes, the bathroom became just another storage room.

  A sound. A squeak. Rats? She swung the light left to right, at the same time bringing her feet closer together, trying to take up as little space as possible.

  The bathtub. Something in the bathtub.

  The tub was full of… what… blankets, dead animals? No, something alive. Something that squeaked. Not a squeak. A coo. A baby coo.

  Not believing, but hoping against hope, Callie knelt beside the tub. The shower curtain was long gone, and the plastic shower curtain rings hung like rib bones picked clean.

  The tub was filled with towels and blankets, but in the center a boxy shape covered by a towel. She pulled off a corner, revealing a plastic laundry tub—and stared into the beautiful blue eyes of Ryan, pooled in the beam of the flashlight.

  He squinted and turned his head, so she quickly shut the light off and put it in her pocket, stashed the knife in another pocket, and reached down and scooped him up. He was wearing only a diaper, which looked incredibly full and about to fall off. Other than that, he seemed fine.

  She resisted the urge to hug him and kiss him over and over. That could wait.

  “We’re getting out of here,” she whispered, holding him tightly. The knife was in one pocket, the flashlight in another. No light. No weapon. This was going to be difficult. And to top it off, Ryan began squirming.

  “Shh,” she whispered, kissing the top of his head. “It’s okay. Shh.” But he continued to squirm and now began to cry. Callie crouched in the hall and pulled out her flashlight, checked out the floor in front to her. All clear. A faint light was beginning to filter in through the living room. She could make shapes of the furniture. She shut the bathroom door behind her.

  Ryan cried out and
wrenched away from her. She grasped him even more tightly, struggling to keep him from falling. The flashlight fell from her grasp and hit the floor.

  A loud groan from the bedroom. “Shut th’ fuck up!” followed by a hollow thud. A bottle hitting the floor. She froze. Ryan squirmed even more and let out a loud squawk.

  More noise from the bedroom, clattering of things falling over, thumping of a big man—a really big man—getting up on unsteady feet.

  Three months ago, Callie would have been too frightened to make a rational decision. But now her choice was clear.

  No hiding.

  She moved toward the bluish cast of light emanating from the kitchen, toward the door, and escape.

  The hallway grew suddenly dark as something immense moved in front of her, blocking the light from the kitchen.

  The Clown Man.

  He was huge, and gross, and up close, the most frightening thing she had ever seen. He still wore the white makeup, although it was splotchy and smeared. In the dim light, his eyes were black holes. His pendulous, hairy belly hung over his stained, baggy sweatpants. She could smell his stench: sweat, urine, and who knew what else.

  “What are you doing?” he roared. “That’s mine!”

  Ryan was screaming. Without realizing what she was doing, Callie backed away. Away from escape. Away from Jake.

  The Clown Man strode forward. He was carrying a large black flashlight in one hand, and he turned it on, shone it at her face. She turned her head, and a big, meaty hand snatched at Ryan, grabbing him by an arm. He cried out in alarm and—pain—and Callie instinctively tugged back.

  “Let go, you little bitch!” His spittle spraying her face. The Clown Man twisted Ryan’s arm and the infant yelped, his face contorted with terror and pain. Callie let go of him, holding her hands up in supplication.

  “Please, don’t hurt him. Please, just let us go.”

  “Shut up!” A massive hand slapped her across the face, rocking her head to the side, bringing her to her knees. “It’s mine now. And so are you.”

  He reached down and grabbed her coat.

  White spots in Callie’s vision. Her ears rang. Her jaw stung. But he had Ryan.

  He had Ryan.

  She was being dragged down the hallway, back toward the bathroom.

  Or the room with a padlock on the door.

  She struggled to slide herself out of the oversized jacket, but he had her left elbow in a painfully firm grip. She was stuck.

  He mumbled to himself as he pulled her. “Goddamn bitch, try to steal my baby. I’ll show you, yes I will. Show you. Gonna eat you up. Eat you all up.”

  Her hand slid into her jacket pocket and clutched the handle of the carving knife. She moved in one motion, not allowing time to second-guess herself, twisted her body around, and stuck the knife into his calf.

  The Clown Man hollered, took a step, and fell to one knee. His flashlight thudded on the carpet, and the shadows danced crazily in the narrow space.

  Before he could turn on her, Callie, crying out in fear and anger, yanked the knife from his calf with a wet, sucking sound, and stabbed him in the lower back. The knife went in, caught on something, but she leaned on it and it slid in to the hilt. She tried to pull it out, but it was stuck fast. She moved it back and forth, struggling to loosen it, and he howled. Blood leaked from the wound, covering her hands, making her grip slippery.

  Still on his knees, he dropped forward, supporting himself on one hand. He clutched Ryan to his chest with the other. Ryan was no longer screaming. Callie stood up and moved away. The knife was still stuck in his back.

  The Clown Man’s breath came in quick, short gasps. He coughed once, placed Ryan on the floor, and shakily stood up and faced her. He leaned on his uninjured leg. She was disgusted to see that the front of his sweatpants was stained with blood. He reached behind him, struggling to reach the knife, but he was too bulky. Too much fat. He couldn’t get his arms around. He roared like a maddened bull and slammed against the wall as he lurched toward her.

  “You… little… fuck!” he wheezed, coming closer. Callie inched away, looking around desperately for another weapon. She saw that Ryan was moving slowly on the floor at the opposite end of the hall.

  In the living room, hazy with the morning light, she had more space to maneuver, but was no closer to helping Ryan. She picked up an empty beer bottle and hurled it at the Clown Man. It bounced off his massive chest. He didn’t even seem to notice. His face was a mask of hatred and pain, his big red mouth turned down in a grimace. Blood leaked from one corner of his mouth. He put one arm out and leaned against the wall, panting. Then started forward again.

  She picked up another bottle, this one larger and squared at the bottom, and flung it at him. It caught him in the forehead, knocking his head back with an audible thunk.

  He groaned and stepped back, putting a hand up to his head. A bottle smashed into the wall beside him and he ducked. A clear glass bottle caught him in the knee and he grunted in pain.

  “Goddamnit!” He straightened, and still wheezing, lurched for her. The back of her legs hit the couch. She had nowhere to go.

  He was five steps away. Three.

  Callie picked up a wine bottle and held it like a club. She sidestepped, closer to the kitchen. She knew she could outrun him if she made a move now. But what about Ryan, squirming in the hallway?

  I can’t leave him… again.

  She went to move around him, but he was on her.

  “Goddamn… bitch! You… stabbed… me!” He was gasping, weakened, but still dangerous, still a monster. She swung the bottle, hitting him in the chest, the stomach. No effect. He grabbed her wrist, squeezing, bones grinding together. She cried out and dropped the bottle. He clamped a hand around her throat and lifted her up.

  No. Not fair. Jake. What about…

  Everything went black.

  ***

  She gasped. Her throat burned, and it was difficult to breathe. So much pressure on her chest. Her wrist hurt. It was so dark. And that smell. She struggled to move, but it was hard, like something was pressing down on her. Something spongy… flabby… cold.

  It’s him. He’s lying on top of me.

  A wave of claustrophobia swept through her. She squirmed, and pushed and twisted, and slowly wormed her way out from beneath the lifeless body of the Clown Man. She got to her feet and felt her wrist. It really hurt, but she flexed her hand without too much pain. It didn’t look swollen. Her legs were wet with blood.

  Not mine. His.

  She heard faint crying.

  Ryan!

  She raced down the hallway and knelt beside him. He was alive and moving, still a bit fussy. She lifted him and cradled him to her and let the tears come.

  “I’m so sorry, so sorry.” She held him at arm’s length and inspected him. He looked fine. Probably traumatized—you and me both, she thought, and heard the cry again. Muffled, nearby.

  Her eyes went to the padlocked door.

  She approached the door, listened. Definitely crying. A child. She reached up and tugged at the lock. The crying stopped.

  “Hey,” she said, leaning in. “I’m going to get you out of there. I’m going to help.”

  She went back to the kitchen counter, giving the stinking corpse on the floor a wide berth, and found the key ring. She took a moment and tore down the sheets covering the windows. It made a difference. The room brightened considerably.

  We might actually see the sun today.

  She used one of the sheets to cover the Clown Man.

  She placed Ryan on the floor beside the locked door and tried a key. Then another. Finally she found the right one. She removed the padlock and turned the handle and opened the door. The room was another bedroom, but the bed was bare, just a mattress. On the floor were three large dog crates, the kind for really big dogs. Two were empty, but the third held a little girl.

  She squatted on a filthy blanket as far back in the crate as she could get. Her hair was ratty and her
face was dirty. With her was an old teddy bear, a plastic water bottle, and an empty bag of pretzels. There was a tiny padlock, the kind Callie’s mom used for her suitcase, keeping the crate locked.

  Callie dropped to her knees in front of the crate. The girl came forward a bit.

  “I’m Callie. What’s your name?”

  “Becca.” Her voice, a whisper. She looked like a third or fourth grader, so that would make her—Callie did the math—eight or nine.

  “Okay, Becca.” She nodded at the baby in her arms. “This is Ryan. We’re going to get you out of here, okay?”

  Becca nodded.

  ***

  On the way out of that nightmare house, she took one last look at the sheet-covered Clown Man, the knife still sticking out of his back, standing up like an accusing finger.

  You killed someone.

  ***

  Later that afternoon, a strange-looking group made its way through the deserted neighborhood. A young girl, her eyes grim and haunted, held onto a leash and led an older boy, who walked behind. Beneath her free arm, she held a battered teddy bear.

  Slightly ahead of them, her eyes warily scanning both sides of the street, walked a slightly older girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen, pushing a jogging stroller. Her name was Callie, and she was on her way to see her grandmother in California.

  LOGAN’S MISSION

  William F. Nolan

  Logan 3 was in the hydrogarden, watching Jessica and Jaq 2 as they attempted to cross-breed a rose with a dandelion.

  “What are we going to call it?” asked the boy.

  Jessica smiled, patting his head. “How about… a roselion,” she said.

  “I like it!” Nodded Jaq. “It’s perfect.”

  Jess put away the garden tools. “Now then, young mister, it’s time for your fencing lesson.”

  Jaq groaned. “Can’t I skip it today? I hate fencing! The Robomaster always wins!”

  Logan smiled. “It’s programmed to be tough.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “To teach you that we don’t always win in life.”