Unbreakable

by Will McIntosh

  There was nothing to do until someone came in, so Celia took out her phone and watched Daisy and Bernie. She loved movies set in New York City, and loved Daisy and Bernie especially, because so much of it was set in bookstores. She skipped ahead and watched the scene where Daisy and Bernie first meet in a gorgeous used bookstore. It was a weird habit, watching movies out of order, but she’d seen her favorites so many times she preferred to sample, bouncing around the same way she listened to her favorite songs on an album.

  Watching the first scene, Celia got a jolt of memory from the first time she’d seen the movie, with Janine, Max, and Molly, all of them pressed together so they could see the screen. Janine had laughed her head off, and Celia remembered being annoyed because she’d laughed at everything that was supposed to be funny, even if it wasn’t funny at all. She’d done that all the time when they watched comedies. Now Celia wondered why that had annoyed her. Janine had just been taking advantage of every possible opportunity to laugh.

  The door swung open. Celia turned to ask if the supervisor had left yet.

  Only, it was the supervisor who walked in. She glanced at Celia before turning to the sink closest to the door.

  An instant later her head snapped back up to Celia.

  “Who are you?”

  Celia ran. She hit the door with her shoulder and headed down the empty hallway, away from the grandstand.

  “Stop!” the supervisor shouted from behind her.

  Up ahead, the hallway ended in a dead end. The massive red-and-white striped tent rose outside each window she passed. If she could get to the tent she might be beyond the supervisor’s reach.

  Celia pushed open a heavy steel door marked Exit, took a stairwell to ground level and raced into the tall grass that separated the big top from the building she’d just exited. She ducked behind a pile of moldering two-by-fours stacked alongside the tent and glanced back to see the exit door fly open. There were no openings in the sides of the big top, which looked to be made of heavy canvas. The canvas was tethered tightly to the ground—no way Celia could squeeze underneath.

  Then it hit her: the walls were canvas. She still had the knife she’d strapped to her calf when she swam out of Record Village. She drew the knife and stabbed through the thick fabric about two feet above the ground and sawed a ragged vertical slit.

  She scrambled through the breach onto a curved concrete ramp. Before she had time to stand, a dozen clowns, big shoes flopping, ran full-tilt past her, their brightly-painted faces twisted in rage. They paid her absolutely no attention.

  When they were out of sight, Celia headed in the direction they’d gone—down the ramp. Up would obviously lead to the performance area, down probably to dressing rooms and such. Places where she could hide.

  The ramp ended in a maze of narrow, dimly-lit hallways. Pulling up her hood, Celia hurried past doorways where people were shouting directions, throwing on or taking off costumes.

  Celia spotted a closed door marked Janitor. Thankfully, it was unlocked. She slipped inside, glimpsing mops and boxes of cleaning powder before easing the door closed.

  The thump of footsteps rose outside. “You go left. We’ll go right,” a high-pitched voice shrieked. She wondered what the clowns were looking for. They’d looked really angry when they passed her.

  Something brushed Celia’s shoulder. Her cry of surprise was cut short as a hand closed over her mouth. Something bit into the side of her neck.

  “Quiet.” The voice was high-pitched, yet rough as sandpaper. A clown.

  Slowly, Celia reached for her knife.

  The clown yanked her head back violently. “Uh-uh.”

  A dim light clicked on, revealing a white-gloved hand over her mouth, corkscrews of orange hair in the corner of her vision. She turned her head enough to see what was pressed to her throat: a long triangular shard of broken glass.

  “I’m in a bit of a predicament.” The clown kept his voice low. “There’s been a misunderstanding. My troupe is under the impression I did something I didn’t do, and now they want to—” He paused. “Well, there’s no savory way to put it. They want to cut me into pieces and string me up like a candy bracelet.”

  The clown leaned forward, studying Celia. There was a wide blue stripe around his lips, red stars on his cheeks, swooping red semi-circle eyebrows, and red button nose. His breath smelled like rotting fish. “Who the hell are you?”

  When Celia didn’t answer, he must have realized he still had his hand over her mouth. He lifted it tentatively.

  “I’m from the audience. I got lost.”

  Pain lanced Celia’s neck as the sliver of glass punctured her skin. “You got lost? And when you wandered past security, did they tip their caps and wish you a fine day? Give me a break.”

  This clown was going to kill her. He was running for his life, couldn’t afford to stay where he was, and couldn’t risk Celia raising the alarm if he let her go. He would cut her throat and run. Celia felt it with utter, black certainty.

  “I can get you outside the walls. That’s where I’m headed.”

  “Outside.” He breathed the word almost reverently. “What are you going to do, disguise me as a mark and sneak me through the gates?”

  She pictured the reservoir running along the outer wall of Circus Town. That swim would be a piece of cake. For her, at least.

  “We swim under the wall. I’ve done it before.”

  “I can’t swim.” The hand holding the shard of glass tensed, readying to slash.

  “Can you hold your breath? I can pull you through on a rope.”

  The clown’s hand relaxed. His predicament was so clear Celia could almost hear his thoughts. Where could he run? Eventually that mob would find him and kill him. Any small hope of escape was better than certain death.

  He repositioned the shard of glass to rest between her shoulder blades. “If you give me up, I’ll spend my last seconds skewering you. It’s not like I’ll have anything else to do.”

  Celia nodded.

  “Where are we going?” the clown asked.

  “Do you have a reservoir?”

  He opened the door and glanced outside. “Come on.”

  They jogged back the way she’d come, the clown clutching the back of her jacket. He couldn’t have been more than four and a half feet tall, and shaped like a pear.

  “I cut an opening in the tent,” Celia said as they ran, “we can get out through there.”

  “Shh.” The clown yanked her to a stop.

  Celia heard voices directly ahead, coming toward them.

  “This way.” The clown pulled her in the opposite direction.

  Behind them, a clown shrieked. It was the most terrible, twisted, unearthly sound Celia had ever heard—a cry of discovery, a cry for blood, both angry and gleeful. A half dozen other clowns took up the cry. Celia ran faster. She wasn’t at all sure that the ones making that sound would stop with the clown.

  They raced down the narrow hallway, then left, and left again into an open space. Another tent—blue and yellow, with twin peaks. A group of acrobats in skin-tight blue leotards, their faces painted white, turned as Celia and the clown sprinted past. They looked interested, but not particularly surprised, as if the sight of people fleeing for their lives was common.

  Clowns spilled into the tent through the exit, cutting them off. Celia veered right, the clown still clinging to her jacket, and headed for the tent wall at the far end. All she could think was to cut her way out, although she probably wouldn’t have time with the clowns so close behind. She considered stopping and holding up her hands, but the clown might well make good on his threat, or the mob might tear her apart. Or both.

  There was a towering ladder set beside a shallow dive tank directly in their path, the apex of the ladder close to the tent ceiling. Celia headed for the ladder, a plan forming. As she started to climb, the clown let go of her jacket and followed, his breath coming in asthmatic squeals.

  The mob of clowns spread out around
the base of the ladder and dive tank, and craned their necks to watch. That was a lucky break—she would have plenty of time to saw through the ceiling of the tent.

  When they reached the diving platform, Celia drew the knife. The clown tensed, flashed square white teeth and raised the shard of glass. The white glove clutching it was soaked red with blood from the clown’s own palm.

  Ignoring the gesture, Celia reached up and pinched the tent fabric, drawing it down. She stabbed upward, piercing the canvas. Realizing what she was doing, the clown cackled with glee, while shouts of surprise rose from the tent floor.

  The material drooped on either side, exposing a crescent of blue sky.

  “Give me a boost. I’ll pull you up.”

  “You give me a boost and I’ll pull you up,” the clown shot back.

  Celia laced her hands together. The clown planted his huge shoe in her hands, grabbed the ragged seams of the breach and sprang through the hole with remarkable agility.

  His gloved hand appeared out of the opening. Celia grasped it, and the clown pulled her through as if she were made of paper.

  They crab-walked along the canvas, sunk in a deep pucker. When they reached the canted side, Celia sat and pushed off.

  The friction caused a hot whining that grew in pitch as the wind whipped her long hair. The last ten feet of the drop was vertical. Celia came off the lip of the canted section and flew out into open air. She hit the grass hard, butt-first, bounced, and rolled twice before coming to a stop.

  “Let’s go.” The clown was already on his feet.

  Celia limped after the clown, who wound between tents, railway cars, carnival rides, and dormitories. The carnival people they passed ignored them.

  As they cut behind a row of carnival games, Celia paused to sever a thin cord that tethered one corner of a plywood stall. The stall sagged, but didn’t collapse as Celia coiled the rope in her hand and hurried to catch up.

  The clown led them across a field of thick yellow weeds, then pushed into the underbrush beyond. Celia stopped short as the clown pitched forward and rolled down a brambly ravine then over a bank, landing with a splash in a shallow stream.

  The clown glared up at her. “Don’t even think about laughing.”

  “Don’t worry.” There was nothing that could have made Celia laugh at that moment. If she was going to try to ditch this guy, now was the time, but she’d seen him move, had felt how easily he’d lifted her through the breach in the tent. He was stronger and faster than her. There was no way around it—she was going into another pipe, and although it shouldn’t be as long a swim as last time, it would still be a dark pipe filled with water, and she was going into it with a guy dressed as a clown. She didn’t even know his damned name.

  She climbed down the bank. “What’s your name?”

  “Beaners.”

  Beaners. The guy’s name was Beaners.

  She waited for him to ask her name, but he headed downstream without a word, ankle-deep in the creek. Celia followed through the cool water.

  “You know, Beaners, when someone asks your name, usually you ask theirs in return. Basic human courtesy.”

  Beaners glared over his shoulder. “I’m still debating whether to cut your throat and take my chances.”

  “Not a wise career move, unless you think you can chew your way through that wall.” Sure, it hadn’t been funny when Minnie said it, but it was all in the delivery.

  When they reached the reservoir, Beaners grasped a handful of Celia’s shirt again. “What now, lollipop?”

  Celia tied one end of the rope around Beaners, up under his armpits so he would come headfirst. “Now we find the pipe that feeds to the outside, and I pull you through.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What’s to keep you from letting go of the rope in that pipe and leaving me to drown?”

  Celia put her fists on her hips. “Because I’m not a psychopath? I’m not going to leave someone to drown in a pipe in the dark.”

  Beaners held out his hand. “Let me see that rope.”

  Celia handed it to him. Beaners squatted, pulled the knife from its sheath on Celia’s calf. He stowed it in the waist of his baggy pants, then looped the loose end of the rope around her waist and tied a complex knot, never breaking eye contact with Celia. He gave a final tug on the rope. “Now I’m covered even if you are a psychopath. If I drown, you drown.”

  “And vice-versa,” Celia shot back.

  Bound together, they moved along the edge of the reservoir. From her previous underwater adventure, Celia knew what to look for: a spot where water flowing from the pipe disturbed the surface slightly. When she found it, they waded in. She showed Beaners how to hyperventilate, then take a deep breath. There wasn’t time to teach him lung-packing; Celia just had to hope it wasn’t a long swim.

  “Once we’re in the pipe, push yourself along as hard and fast as you can. Don’t rely on me to pull you.”

  The clown nodded, eyeing the chest-high water nervously.

  “Okay, here we go. Deep breaths. Hold your breath when I do.”

  As soon as the clown’s mouth closed, Celia yanked him under and swam for the pipe.

  Swimming with the clown as dead weight was brutal. She hadn’t expected him to be so buoyant; it was like dragging a giant helium balloon through the water behind her.

  She was exhausted by the time her fingers clutched the mouth of the pipe. With him behind her blocking the light, it grew dark inside almost immediately.

  Celia moved fast, knowing the clown wasn’t going to be able to hold his breath for more than two or three minutes. When his air gave out, her only chance would be to drag his corpse behind her—there was no way she’d be able to untie a knot in the dark.

  A hand pressed on the small of her back. Celia was so startled she almost blew out her air. Beaners propelled her forward, moving fast. The guy’s strength was astounding. He didn’t look strong—he was big around the middle, and his chest and upper body looked scrawny beneath his crepe-collared, polka-dotted shirt, but he was freakishly powerful.

  Not sixty seconds later she popped out of the pipe into sunlit water. She swam a dozen feet to the surface and inhaled sweet, fresh air.

  Beaners broke the surface a moment later, took a loud, squealing breath, wrapped his arms around Celia’s neck and clung to her. Celia was pulled under by his weight. She thrashed to get her face above water.

  “Get off me. You’ll drown us both.”

  Beaners only tightened his grasp. As she was going under a second time, Celia jammed her finger into Beaners’ eye. Even underwater she could hear his howl of pain as he let go and clutched his eye.

  Celia grabbed his collar and swam for the shore.

  As she dragged him onto the bank, she pulled the knife out of his waistband, cut the rope connecting them, and flung the knife into the reservoir. Now no one would be able to stab anyone.

  “Let me see your eye.”

  Beaners drew his hand away from his eye. He was blinking rapidly, and the eye was red, but it wasn’t bleeding or lacerated.

  “I was hoping I blinded you, but it looks like you’re going to be all right.”

  “I told you I couldn’t swim. What did you want me to do, drown?” Beaners pulled off one of his huge red and yellow shoes to empty the water from it.

  Celia stared, open-mouthed at his foot.

  It was shaped exactly like the shoe. The heel and arch were normal-sized, but the front half mushroomed into a bulb-shaped monstrosity.

  Beaners looked up and caught Celia staring. The ivory-white parts of his face reddened. He pulled his shoe back on as Celia tried in vain not to stare at the pinkish hue of his face. She’d assumed it was grease paint. But it couldn’t be. Grease paint wouldn’t redden.

  He wasn’t wearing makeup. Beaners wasn’t dressed like a clown—Beaners was a clown.

  How could someone be a clown?

  “I can’t believe it.” Beaners was looking around. “I’m out. I’m really out. Unbelievable
.” He laughed with delight. It was the craziest laugh Celia had ever heard—a pinwheel kaleidoscope in sound. “All my life I’ve dreamt of gazing at a landscape unclotted by clowns.” He shook his head. “I’m so sick of them. Their eggplant feet, the cotton-candy stink of their armpits.” He looked at Celia. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my brothers, but I’m so sick of them.”

  “How did you get like that?” Celia blurted.

  Beaners’ eyes narrowed. “How did I get like what?”

  “Your skin colors. The way your feet are so—”

  Beaners’ voice grew low, threatening. “How did you get like that?”

  Celia swallowed. Her throat was suddenly incredibly dry. “You’re saying you were born like that?”

  Beaners’ expression dared Celia to push this line of conversation one inch further and see what happened. She turned away and looked around, trying to get her bearings as her thoughts spun. She had no idea what to do now, except strike out in one direction and hope it led to civilization.

  The hill with the rock outcropping that looked like a face caught her attention. That was the direction Anand thought they should go.

  Anand. God, she was sorry to lose Anand. She’d liked that guy. Trusted him. She glanced at Beaners, who had basically forced her to swap Anand for him. “Okay, well, I’m going now. Good luck.” She headed in the direction of the rise.

  Beaners sprang to his feet. “Hang on. Where’re you headed?”

  Celia kept walking. “I don’t know. I have no idea what’s out there, so how could I know where I’m headed?” Which was true, but also a lie.

  Behind her, Beaners gasped. She turned, saw him gawking at a walled town in the distance.

  “Wait,” he called.

  Celia kept walking, tall weeds tugging at her calves.

  “If you don’t stop, I’m going to bash your head in.”

  She paused. Beaners was clutching a rock the size of a softball. “Neither of us knows where we’re going, so we’re headed in the same direction. Let’s stick together till there’s a fork in our paths.”