It was empty inside.
Mason spun in a full circle, scanning the area.
“Connie!” he shouted.
No reply.
He was about to run and get Bowie when he heard an aborted scream. It had only lasted a second, but it was enough for him to determine that she was near a series of show tents erected on the other side of the small fair.
Mason took off toward the sound, drawing his weapon as he ran.
“Connie!” he shouted again. “Where are you?”
Nothing.
He hurried up to the first tent but hesitated to rush blindly inside. The tent was roughly circular, measuring perhaps twenty feet across. The only way in or out was a flap-covered doorway. There was simply no strategic way to enter with one person, so he opted for a quick, hopefully unexpected entry.
Rushing headlong through the heavy canvas flap, he stumbled over a row of chairs before finally coming to rest on his belly, looking up at a small stage. Not his most graceful entrance to be sure. Fortunately, the tent was empty.
He scrambled back out and raced over to the next tent. Even before entering, he detected the pungent odor of human decomposition. Something, more likely someone, was dead inside. He stopped to listen. There was a slight buzzing sound. Blowflies, he thought. Again, he rushed into the tent, this time successfully avoiding the chairs.
The stink was nearly overpowering, and Mason had to cover his mouth to keep from gagging. In the center of the tent was a large wooden chair, decorated to look like a royal throne. On it sat the body of the largest woman he had ever seen. Having been dead for some time, she was now little more than a huge pile of bones, hair, and what he could only describe as sticky human goo. Maggots feasted on what remained, and thousands of blowflies buzzed around it, hoping to get their share of the queen. A large sledgehammer rested in the middle of her remains—a hint that her exit might have been quick, but it certainly hadn’t been peaceful.
He stumbled back out of the tent, fighting his way free of the flap and the stench.
Another scream pierced the air, this time from over by the carousel.
He spun, raising his pistol, and scanned the area for movement. A shape darted between two of the carousel horses. Tired of being two steps behind, Mason circled the ride from the opposite direction. He scanned the maze of colorful horses, each poised at different heights. And that’s when he saw something that could only be described as bizarre. Connie was being carried kicking and screaming like a runaway bride, draped over the shoulder of a clown. And not some amateur birthday party clown either. This clown was in full costume: puffy trousers, bright red hair, and a painted white face.
“Connie!” he shouted, trying to line up for a shot.
The clown glanced back over his shoulder, stuck his tongue out at Mason, and dashed inside yet another tent.
Mason approached with his Supergrade at the ready. He couldn’t be sure that the tent was identical to the others. Perhaps there was another way out. Why else would someone retreat into a dead end? Of course, it could have been a simple mistake.
“Bring her out, or I’m coming in,” he said, immediately taking a couple of steps to the left. Who was to say that the clown didn’t have a Tommy gun inside? The situation had already crossed into the realm of the surreal, so everything was now on the table.
No one answered or made any effort to come out. More important still, no one cut loose with a long blast of machinegun fire.
Mason was confident that even if he were forced to go inside, his enemy would be at a disadvantage. There were few people in the world who could outshoot him in close quarters. He leaned forward and put his ear to the tent, hoping to get an idea of how many people were inside and where they might be positioned.
He heard the rustle of clothing as well as a slap-slap-slap of someone running in oversized shoes. It took him a moment too long to realize that the footsteps weren’t coming from inside the tent.
Something hard thumped Mason on the back of the head, and he fell against the tent before sliding down onto the dirt. The last thing he saw before everything went dark was a shiny red clown shoe stomping down on the side of his face.
Mason awoke to a stream of warm urine splashing across his back and shoulders. He struggled to get free, but his hands were securely taped behind his back. His ankles were similarly bound, and his mouth was taped shut.
“Don’t worry, princess. Your time’s comin’.” The clown’s voice was scratchy, like that of Stephen King’s Pennywise. “You lie there for a bit soakin’ in my piss, while I give your girlfriend a little plug of the ol’ clown juice.”
With that, the clown zipped up, turned, and left.
Mason had experienced harsh treatment at the hands of captors before, but it was safe to say that this was the first time he had been urinated on by a maniacal clown. He pushed his bruised ego aside and focused on his military training: survive, evade, resist, and escape, the mantra of every professional soldier caught behind enemy lines.
Rolling to one side, he took stock of his situation. He was inside a carnival tent, although it was not one he had visited previously. The only sound was that of his own breathing. Mistake number one, he thought: leaving a prisoner alone.
Still, he had his work cut out for him. With his left hand, Mason grabbed his right fist and flexed his back and shoulders. The tape gave slightly, but only until the threads drew taut. His captor had used enough layers that he wasn’t going to rip it off. He repeated the process several more times until the tape no longer gave. It felt like he had managed to achieve a gap of about an inch between his wrists—not enough to slip out, but perhaps enough for what he had in mind.
He prepared himself for the most difficult part of the escape, the transfer of his bound hands to the front of his body. If he had been blessed with the flexibility of a gymnast, it would have been child’s play. As it was, it was going to hurt like hell. He bowed his back and struggled to slide his hands down past his butt. His shoulders ached as they stretched to their natural limits, and he breathed a sigh of relief when his hands finally cleared his hips. He rolled onto his back, sat up, and lifted his feet through so that his hands were now in front of his body. The hard part was over.
He quickly reached up and pulled the tape off his mouth. If the tape around his wrists hadn’t been so crumpled from his stretching it, he could probably have twisted his hands and torn free. It was easier than most people thought. Unfortunately, now that he had made a mess of the tape, it would require a little more effort.
Reaching down, he untied one side of his boot, leaving the other half of the lace secured. He tied the free end of the lace into a knot and slipped it into his mouth. Holding the knot between his teeth, he extended his feet until the lace drew taut. The Kevlar boot laces were round and coarse, perfect for what he had in mind.
He pulled his wrists apart, pressed the edge of the tape against the lace, and began to slide his hands up and down. Within seconds, the lace sawed through the edge of the tape, and his hands tore free. He reached down and freed his ankles, taking a moment to lace up his boot.
Instinctively, he reached for his Supergrade. No surprise, the holster was empty. His hunting knife was also missing. His captor was inexperienced but not stupid.
He glanced at the tent’s flap. Going out that way was not an option.
The tent was held up by a wooden center post and eight thick cords secured to stakes outside. He imagined that the stakes were driven in with heavy mallets and would be impossible to uproot by hand. Midway between each cord, however, the edge of the tent was a little loose. He peeked underneath and spied the back of an identical tent next door.
Mason squatted down, grabbed the loose portion of canvas, and attempted to deadlift it away from the dirt floor. It was a little easier than he expected, and he managed to slide the canvas up by about eighteen inches. He dropped to his belly and low crawled through the gap.
He was f
ree.
Mason weighed his options. He could make his way back to the truck and get the Aug. With the rifle in hand, he would have quite a bit of firepower, certainly enough to deal with a sadistic clown. The problem with that plan was that by the time he returned, Connie might already be dead, or worse. He had to bring the fight to his enemy now. And to do that, he needed a weapon.
An idea came to him—the sledgehammer. It was primitive, but sometimes primitive was good.
He quickly oriented himself to the layout of the carnival. If he had it right, the tent with the dead woman inside was less than fifty feet away. He raced toward it, keeping a careful check on his surroundings. Even soaked in urine, it was a blessing to still be alive. He sure as hell wasn’t about to let the clown get the better of him again so easily.
He ducked back inside the tent. The stink was worse than he remembered, and he wasted no time hurrying over and hoisting the sledgehammer. The handle was made of yellow fiberglass, and the head a hefty sixteen pounds of steel. The entire thing was coated in dried blood and bits of brain. The hammer had served its purpose well, and he hoped it would again.
Mason peeked out through the flap to make sure the coast was still clear.
It was.
He slipped out and hurried around to the back. There was no way to be sure whether Connie was still in the same tent, but it was a good place to start. If he didn’t find her there, Mason would have no choice but to get Bowie. Searching the snack shacks, game booths, and large tin buildings would require far too much time without the dog’s keen sense of smell.
As he crept up to the back of the tent, Mason heard Connie pleading from within.
“Please,” she begged, “we haven’t done anything to you.”
“You’re pretty,” a scratchy voice answered.
Mason tiptoed around to the front until he stood only a few feet from the entrance. If he could lure the clown out, one good hit to the chest would do the trick. But that was easier said than done. From the sounds coming from inside, Pennywise was planning to enjoy Connie’s company in a most unwelcome way. If he waited much longer, it would be too late.
Mason choked up on the sledgehammer with both hands, holding it in front of him like Thor clutching Mjolnir. It would take a moment to use in a fight, but keeping it in a neutral position kept his options open. He took a calming breath and bolted through the flap.
The clown stood in the center of the tent, a pair of puffy black pants pulled down to his enormous white shoes. His bare bottom and hairy legs stood in stark contrast to his colorful costume. Connie was sitting on the dirt floor in front of him, her hands secured behind her back and her face twisted with fear. Mason’s Supergrade and spare magazines were resting on a chair directly behind the clown.
“No! Not now!” he shouted, frantically grabbing his pants.
Mason stepped forward, let the hammer slide down his hands, and swung for the bleachers. The sixteen-pound block of steel smashed against the back of the clown’s head and, much like Gallagher’s famous watermelon extravaganzas, the man’s brains, eyes, and blood exploded onto the wall of the tent.
Connie’s eyes grew wide, and she began to gag.
Mason dropped the hammer and quickly retrieved his Supergrade and ammunition. Assume nothing, he reminded himself as he checked the firearm to ensure that it was properly loaded. When he was confident that the weapon was ready to fight, he stowed it in its holster and turned back to Connie.
“Are you okay?”
She seemed unable to speak, her eyes drifting over to what was left of the clown.
“Are you okay?” he said louder.
She looked up at him and nodded.
He quickly searched the clown for his hunting knife. It wasn’t on him. No matter, he thought. Finding another knife would be easy enough. He moved over to Connie, squatted down, and carefully removed the tape from her wrists. As soon as he did, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“It’s all right,” he said, waiting for her to stop shaking.
It took a couple of minutes for her to finally relax enough to let him go. And when she did, she leaned away.
“You smell awful.”
Mason stood up and pointed to the dead man.
“You can blame that on Pennywise the Pissing Clown.”
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, helping her to her feet. “Let’s just get out of here.”
As they were about to push open the flap and step out, Mason stopped.
“What is it?” she asked, becoming very still.
“White shoes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The clown. He’s wearing white shoes.”
She looked back over at the dead clown and nodded.
“So?”
“The man who hit me on the head was wearing red shoes.”
Connie stepped back from the flap.
“Are you sure?” Her voice was trembling again.
“Yes.”
“Two crazed clowns? That’s impossible.”
“Meeting one crazed clown is nearly impossible. But once you accept that, two doesn’t seem like much of a stretch at all.” Mason placed his hand on the grip of the Supergrade. “When there is one, there are two,” he mumbled.
“What?”
“It’s an old gunfighter saying, reminding us to always assume there are more assailants than the ones we see.”
“So what do we do now?”
Mason was about to suggest that he go out alone when Connie picked up on his train of thought.
“No way,” she said, looking over at the nearly headless clown. “I’m not staying here with that.”
“Are you sure? Getting out of the carnival is going to be tricky business. There are plenty of places he could hide.”
“I’m sure.”
“All right. Stay two steps behind me. And if I say drop, you drop to the ground.”
She nodded.
Mason pushed the tent flap aside and stepped out.
The storm was rolling in from the south. Dark thunderheads puffed and spewed, lightning flashed, and thunder caused the air to tremble with fear.
“We have to hurry,” Connie said, looking up at the sky.
“No,” he countered. “We have to move carefully.”
“But you have your gun now.”
“I had my gun the last time he dropped me.”
That did little to make her feel better.
“Stay two steps behind me,” he reminded her, walking slowly toward the carnival’s entrance.
It seemed unlikely that the second clown had a firearm. If he had, he would have shot Mason in the beginning, even if only to wound. Why else take a chance sneaking up on him the way he had? But that didn’t mean that he was unarmed. At a minimum, he had Mason’s knife, a blade sharpened to a razor’s edge back at the cabin. But knives were short range weapons. The clown would need to catch them by surprise as they passed a building or rounded a corner.
Mason stayed in the center of the dirt walkway, hoping to avoid such an ambush. To each side were concession stands and games where contestants could win worthless Cupie dolls. Mason doubted that any of the stalls were close enough to initiate a knife attack without being shot first, but it didn’t mean that the man wouldn’t try.
Unfortunately, the sky was growing darker by the moment. Shadows of thick clouds covered the land, transforming the carnival into a lifeless, colorless relic. When the rain finally came, it did so with a vengeance, sheets of water pelting them from above. The rainfall grew so intense that Mason had to frequently look behind him to make sure that Connie hadn’t fallen back, or worse, vanished without a trace. Every time he looked, she was still there, soaking wet with her hair hanging like thick copper strands.
“Sing to me,” he said, trying to talk over the roar of the rain.
“Sing? Are you crazy?”
; “I need to know you’re okay. Sing, so that I can concentrate on what’s out in front of us.”
“What should I sing?”
“Anything. Just pick something you know the words to.”
She wiped the water from her mouth and began singing “Angel,” a song made famous by Sarah McLachlan. Connie’s voice was surprisingly rich and smooth, and Mason paused a moment to let it fill the air around them like a protective spell. He continued on, and her voice grew louder and more impassioned with every step they took. Before long, it felt like she was doing more than singing. She was trying to tame the raging storm with the magic of her voice.
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