Clown Moon

by Alex Jameson

Sam covered his face with his forearms and went fetal as a boot kicked him in the sternum. He still couldn’t take a breath.

  “You just gonna stand around, Doug? Give me the goddamn poker!”

  No…

  The boot came again. He blocked it with both elbows, wrapped one arm around the knee, and pulled the clown to the ground. He didn’t even see which one it was, but it had the fire poker. He grabbed onto it with both hands, trying to twist it out of his grip.

  Another crack. This time the bat came down on his spine. He saw sparks in his vision. The clown under him punched him twice in the face. Tears flooded his eyes. He couldn’t see. He was flipped over onto his back. There were just shapes over him now.

  A boot kicked his head.

  His ribs.

  His arms and legs.

  He tried to roll over. Hands forced him onto his back again.

  It came from all directions.

  This was called crowd frenzy. A bunch of people united against a thing can be incited into doing things they normally wouldn’t by just one or two people. This is the worst kind of peer pressure. This is how riots start. How gangs are formed.

  His vision darkened. He was losing consciousness.

  Whoop-whoop!

  What was that?

  “Shit, the cops! Come on! Get Marv!”

  “Somebody help me!”

  “Can you stand?”

  “Let’s go!”

  Lights. Just barely, he could see red-and-blue flashing light reflecting off the grass. The cops. The clowns ran for it.

  Sam grunted and rolled over. It took everything he had to crawl away. Just like they taught in sniper school, except this time he had no choice; it was as fast as he could go. He crawled into a bush at the base of two trees nearby. Branches scratched at his face. He didn’t care. He crawled as deep inside the bush as he could.

  “You see anything, Iverson?”

  Sam squeezed his eyes shut, and then peered out from the bush. Two cops, both with guns drawn, approached the site of the melee. One of them shined a flashlight in the grass.

  “Got a knife here. Jeez, there’s blood on it. And more in the grass.”

  A radio crackled. “173, what’s your status?”

  “173 here, we got a knife and some blood over here at Green Hills Park, but they’re gone. We’re going over to Glen Echo Road, see if we can’t cut ‘em off that way. Come on, Carl. They can’t have gotten far on foot.” He waited until the cop car was gone to leave his hiding place. But he knew they’d be back to investigate further. He climbed out of the bush and tried to stand. That wasn’t happening. He collapsed immediately. He was dripping blood into the grass from his nose. Can’t leave a trail. He took off his shirt and wrapped it around his face. Wiped his bloody hands in the grass.

  The knife. It has my fingerprints.

  He crawled on his hands and knees over to the knife. Instead of wiping it down, he stuck it in the back of his pants. Then he crawled, hand over hand, back to his vantage point. It took him fifteen minutes to cover the same ground that had taken him mere seconds earlier. He reached the tree line just as the cops returned across the park.

  It took Sam another few minutes to locate the pile of leaves in which he’d left the tact bag. Once he did, he took out his phone and, his fingers trembling, he hit the call button.

  “Hello? Sam? Sam, you there?”

  “Jake.”

  “Jesus Christ, Sam, what’s the matter? What happened?”

  “I’m… I’m busted up pretty bad.” He coughed and sucked in a rasping breath.

  “Are you still at that park?”

  “Y… yeah.”

  “Alright. You find a spot and stay there, Sam. Don’t move. You hear me? Don’t you fucking move.” Jake hung up.

  Sam settled slowly onto his back, staring up at the canopy overhead. Don’t move. Ha. He couldn’t if he wanted to. Everything hurt. He couldn’t even assess what the damage was. He didn’t know if anything was broken.

  He was slipping out of consciousness. With the last ounce of strength, he gathered up some dead leaves. Covered his legs and torso as best he could, and then finally, his head.

  Then he passed out.

  CHAPTER 15

  * * *

  Coleman, Kentucky

  You really messed up this time, kid.

  “N-no! I’ll f-find him,” Harlan panted as he crashed through the trees like a bull in a china shop, crunching over leaves and breathing hard.

  You’d better find him. He saw your face. They’ll fry you for what you’ve done.

  “What w-we’ve done!” The trees were thinning. That wasn’t good.

  You’ve lost him. Just get out of here. Go, while you still can.

  “N-no. I’ll find him. I h-have to.” The woods ended and he came out on the shoulder of a one-lane back road. He looked left and right. There was no one in sight.

  Wait.

  Blood.

  He stooped and touched it and rubbed it between his fingers. Definitely blood. He staggered up the road, searching the asphalt. There was more. A trail.

  He had tried to get the drop on the clown from behind with the tire iron that he’d used to kill the clown in North Carolina. But at the last second, the clown turned slightly and the iron bounced off his head. The clown stumbled. Turned. Saw him. And then it ran. Harlan wasn’t as fast. He’d been chasing it for at least a mile, maybe more. Who knows how far it could have gotten?

  Get out of here. Drive west. Far west.

  “N-not yet,” Harlan wheezed, still catching his breath. The road bent as it climbed uphill. He was sweating in his black rubber gloves, reaching each elbow, and thick smock that hung past his knees. It had always been too big for him. Now he was glad for it.

  “I’ll find… it,” he said, more for his own benefit. “I’ll… look!”

  The road straightened again and up ahead Harlan could see a figure in a pinstripe one-piece outfit kneeling on the roadside, its shoulders heaving.

  Nice work, kid. Never doubted you for a second.

  He gripped the tire iron tighter and approached. He was too tired to mask his steps. The clown turned, and…

  It wasn’t a clown.

  It was… a boy.

  Harlan stopped mere feet from the kid. The boy’s eyes went wide with abject terror. Tears streamed down both cheeks. One side of his brown hair was matted with blood.

  “Please…” the boy said in a whimper. “I… I can’t keep going. D-don’t do it. Please.”

  In his hand, the boy held a mask. A clown mask.

  “It’s… it’s a k-kid.”

  No. This is a trick. They’re trying to trick you, Harlan.

  Harlan panted, heavier than before, this time from anxiety and panic. “It’s j-just a boy.”

  Harlan, they’re fucking with your head. Remember the first one? They said it was a high school kid? It’s not real. It’s a trick!

  “Please…” the boy said again. “My head hurts. I can’t… keep going. Please, take me to a hospital.”

  Tell him to put the mask back on. Then you’ll see.

  Harlan licked his lips. His throat felt dry. “P-put the mask back on.”

  “What?” the boy stammered.

  “Put the m-m-mask back on.”

  “No…” Fresh tears streamed down the kid’s face.

  See? It’s a trick!

  “Put it on!” Harlan shouted. “Put it on!”

  The boy tried to speak, but fear seized his vocal cords. Only hoarse whimpers escaped between gasps for breath.

  “P-put! It! On!”

  The boy shook his head, no.

  Harlan let out a guttural shriek and swung the tire iron. The boy’s head jerked to the side. For a moment, it looked like it had done nothing; then the kid’s eyes rolled up and he crumpled into the dead leaves.

  It was a trick, Harlan. Just a trick. You did the right thing.

  The clown was still breathing. He could see its chest moving. He grabbed it
by the back of the collar and dragged it down the road.

  ***

  Sam woke. It was still dark out. Everything felt numb.

  Where am I?

  He tried to move his arms and feet and heard the scrape of leaves. There was the pain. Oh. White-hot electricity shooting up and down his limbs. He stopped moving.

  What’s that sound?

  Crunching leaves. Someone nearby.

  Why can’t I see? My eyes are closed. Why can’t I open my eyes?

  “Sweet mother of God, Sam, are you alive?” The words came distorted, too slow and too deep, to his ears. “Hang on a sec.”

  The t-shirt came off his face. Something soft and moist wiped the gummy, dried blood from his eyes. He opened them. Everything was blurry, but it was morning. Gray, grim morning. Someone was kneeling over him. He knew who, but that was impossible. This was another dream.

  “Doesn’t look like you can move much, let alone walk. I’m going to have to carry you out of here. It’s probably going to hurt like hell. So… sorry in advance. Where are your keys?”

  He heard rummaging. Then the jingling of his key ring.

  “Never mind, found them. Now I need to know where your truck is. Sam? Where’s your truck? Sam?”

  The figure slapped his cheek. He barely felt the blow, but his nose stung.

  “Ouch. Asshole.”

  “Ah! There he is. Truck? Which way?”

  He pointed as best he could. “That way. Cul-de-sac.”

  “Good enough. Again, sorry about this.”

  Then he was being lifted up into the air. The figure put him over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. With it came the pain. In his legs, his arms, his ribs, his back, his face. Oh, pain. He couldn’t cry out. He could only take shallow, labored breaths.

  “Don’t worry, bro, we’re getting out of here. Don’t worry about us, guy walking his dog. Just a dude carrying another dude through a park. Christ, you’re heavy.”

  Sam passed out again.

  CHAPTER 16

  * * *

  Sam woke. His throat was dry. At least he could open his eyes this time.

  I’m in a bed. Blanket’s scratchy. Smells funny in here. I’m in a motel room.

  There was a glass of water on the bedside table. He reached for it, his arm aching as he did. He sipped; the water tasted strange. City tap water, probably. Speaking of strange, his head felt light. Too light. Like it might float off his shoulders. Weird.

  There was still pain. Not too bad though. Dull aches and cramps. He furrowed his brow—ouch. Forehead. He touched it. Soft and textured. A bandage.

  A toilet flushed somewhere. A sink ran. A door Sam hadn’t noticed before opened and Jake came out, drying his hands on a beige towel.

  “Hey, sleepyhead. Have a nice nap?”

  “Jake. Thank God. I thought you were a dream.”

  Jake waved his fingers in the air. “This is a dream, Sam.”

  “Shut up.” Sam groaned. “Why do I feel weird?”

  “Vicodin. Helps me sleep sometimes. Sure helped you… you’ve been out for nine hours.”

  “Where are we?” his words were hoarse.

  “Roach motel off of I-24. Fifty bucks a night. You know what they think when two guys check into a place like this, right?” He wagged his eyebrows. Normally Sam appreciated his brother’s lame attempts to cheer him up, but this time he couldn’t quite bring himself to smile. It would probably hurt anyway.

  “What’s the damage?”

  “Oh, you don’t need to know all that right now. Why don’t you try telling me what happened?”

  Sam took another gulp of water and recounted the incident in punctuated phrases.

  “Clowns in the park. Four of them. Saw a fifth—thought it was the killer. It wasn’t. Lunatics, man. Attacked me. Too many at once. Cops came… had to get out of there.”

  Jake sat on the edge of the bed, his expression somber for once. “Yeah, well, you did a good job of hiding yourself under those leaves. I don’t think I would’ve found you if I hadn’t spotted the tact bag first.” Then he snorted. “I was wandering around the park, calling your phone and listening for the ringtone.”

  “How’d you know where to find me?”

  Jake blinked at him. “You told me about the park. Don’t you remember that?”

  He thought about it. His brain felt like half-mush right now. That’s right; he had called Jake before night fell, before the clowns attacked him.

  “How did you get here so fast?”

  “It wasn’t that fast. You called. I sped to the airport. Left my car in short-term parking… it’s probably towed by now. Hopped the first flight to Nashville, and Ubered to Green Hills Park. All in all took about six and a half hours. But I’m guessing you were unconscious for most of that.”

  “More like for all of that,” Sam said. “God, I feel so stupid. I thought he’d be there, Jake. I really did.”

  “I know you did.” Jake stared at the floor.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Let’s wait until—”

  “No, I want to know now.”

  Jake sighed. “Alright. Good news or bad news?”

  “Bad news first.” He always chose bad news first. It made the good news sound that much better.

  “Okay. Our guy struck again last night, this time in southern Kentucky. It was… it was bad, Sam.”

  “Tell me.”

  Jake tapped his fingers anxiously against his knees. “Eighteen-year-old kid, out by himself, playing clown. They’re saying that he hit him once in the head, but the kid ran. This fucker… he chased the kid a mile and a half, hit him again.”

  “That’s awful—”

  “That’s not all. The second hit only knocked him out. Cops are saying it looked like he was dragged for a while, to the spot where they found him. Tire tracks and a bit of antifreeze show there was a car parked there. Anyway, the guy, he… he duct-taped the clown mask onto the kid’s neck. So tight it strangled him.”

  Sam gritted his teeth, and for the first time noticed the leopard-print of bruises up and down his arms.

  “Kentucky. I’m not even in the right state.”

  “You want the good news?”

  “I’m not sure there can be good news after that.”

  “Last night, local PD nabbed three of the guys that messed with you.” Jake grinned. “Two of them were carrying a third between them. Blood all over ‘em. I’m guessing that was your handiwork?”

  “Yeah, I dropped a couple before things got bad.”

  “Hey, don’t sell yourself short. It’s all over the local news. Those guys were members of some biker gang, real bad dudes. They all had rap sheets—one of them for arson and attempted murder. The fact that you tangled with five of them and lived to tell the tale says something, for sure.”

  “Biker gang? What?”

  Jake grabbed a Slim Jim from the top of a shoddy dresser and unwrapped it. “I found this in the truck. Hope you don’t mind.” He took a bite and talked around it. “Look, Sam, this thing isn’t just kids and young people goofing around anymore. There are some legit bad people using this whole clown thing as an excuse to exercise some of their… less friendly traits. I’m talking pedophiles and rapists and sadists. And now that there’s a killer out there, they’re arming themselves. Hell, it’s probably only a matter of time before we start seeing clowns with guns.”

  “I didn’t know. I thought they’d just be, you know, normal people. I thought I could reason with them.”

  “Well,” Jake said, “that’s the problem with masks and makeup. You can’t tell who’s behind it.” He took another bite of Slim Jim. “That’s probably the appeal, too.”

  Another thought occurred to Sam. “I had a knife. The one they attacked me with, I took it so the cops wouldn’t find it.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I wiped it with ammonia and stowed it in the dumpster of a fast-food joint a couple miles down the road. No one will find it, and if they do, they
won’t find your fingerprints.”

  Sam sighed. He stretched his legs, inviting another aching sensation up his thighs and into his torso. “Alright, so before I take this blanket off, how bad is it?”

  “I’m no doctor, but it’s mostly superficial. Bruised ribs for sure—maybe even a cracked one. Looks like they got a few good kicks in. The worst part is the broken nose. I gave it a good tug while you were out; should be okay. It’ll just hurt like hell for a while. Let’s see… gash on your forehead. You know how that goes; it just bleeds a lot. I stitched it up. I’m not gonna lie; it’s very crooked. You’ll probably have a wicked cool scar when all’s said and done.”

  Sam absently touched his forehead, where the bandage covered the stitches. “You did all that?”

  Jake shrugged. “Yeah. Otherwise, lots of bruises. The worst ones are on your back—it’ll probably be painful to sit up. The ones on your legs and arms look bad, but they’re mild. You got that gross purple and yellow thing going on.”

  Sam looked away. He almost felt tears coming to his eyes. Must have been the Vicodin. “Thanks, Jake. Thank you for coming. I mean it. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

  “Hey, ain’t no thing. I told you, I’d be there in a heartbeat. It actually took a little longer, but hey.” He slapped Sam’s leg and he winced. “Ooh. Sorry.” He finished the Slim Jim and tossed the wrapper in a small plastic wastebasket. “So, what’s the play? I think you should chill for a day or two and recuperate.”

  “I can’t. He’s already ahead of me again. I was right there, practically on top of him, back in Arborton. I need to get close again.”

  “You can’t drive.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “No. I’ll drive.”

  “You…? No. You need to go back home.”

  “Bitch, please. I didn’t fly out here at one in the morning just to stitch up your face and give you a pep talk. I’m here. I’m staying.”

  “You can’t. You have a job; a career.”

  Jake sucked a breath in through his teeth. “Eh… maybe not.”

  “What?”

  “While you were out, that Agent Reidigger called your phone. I answered. He’s… well, he’s pretty pissed off.”