The Survivalist: Madness Rules Part 14

"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 a.s.sume there are more a.s.sailants 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 pa.s.sed 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 impa.s.sioned 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.

As they rounded the ticket booth, the clown emerged from behind the small money-changing stall. He was very close-eight feet, maybe. He held Mason's knife in his right hand and a miniature baseball bat in the other. His makeup was smeared and splotchy as the rain slowly washed it away. The madness in his eyes, however, could never be cleansed.

Connie stopped singing.

Mason and the clown stared at one another. The distance was close enough that the blade and the gun were at even odds, especially when wet hands were involved. Mason let out half a breath, and both men moved at the same instant.

The clown lunged forward, blade extended like a samurai performing the fine art of Iaido. He was very fast.

Mason drew his Supergrade, leaning hard to the right as he fired. He was faster.

The bullet hit the clown in the forehead, splitting his skull and ricocheting back and forth a few times before finally finding its way out through his neck. Even death, however, did not stop him from inflicting pain. The blade caught Mason along his left shoulder, cutting a deep gash before it fell from the clown's hands.

Connie rushed forward and saw the steady trickle of blood mixing with rain as it flowed down his arm.

"You're hurt," she cried, sliding her arm around him for support.

For a moment, Mason thought he might pa.s.s out. He didn't. And when the world finally stopped spinning, he bent down and picked up the blade.

It was, after all, a very good knife.

CHAPTER.

11.

Tanner drove for the better part of an hour before the flatbed truck finally ran out of gas, choking to a quiet stop on the side of Highway 219. Samantha had fallen asleep on the seat next to him, and he simply eased to a stop and laid his head against the window. When he awoke hours later, it was to the sound of her door opening.

He jerked upright.

She patted his arm lightly.

"I'm going to pee."

"Take your-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know."

Samantha grabbed her rifle and slid out of the truck.

His sleep broken, Tanner sat forward and yawned. He felt stiff and groggy, like he had spent the night on the floor of a jail cell. He opened his door and stepped out. The morning air had a fresh smell to it, and the temperature was cool but comfortable. He rolled his head and arms around, taking a deep breath to see whether nature might replenish him.

It helped, but only a little.

He stumbled off into the bushes and relieved himself. Briars and poison ivy were everywhere.

"Hey," he said over his shoulder, "be careful not squat next to anything with three leaves."

Samantha said something that he couldn't make out.

When he finished, he went back to the truck and began rummaging through his backpack. Samantha returned, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She looked even worse than he felt. He tossed her a breakfast bar, and she caught it with one hand.

"There was a time not so long ago that that bar would have bounced right off your forehead," he said with a chuckle.

She shrugged and tore open the package.

"I guess I learned to catch somewhere along the way."

"No," he said, "you learned to survive somewhere along the way."

Samantha looked up at him.

"Do you think I'd be okay on my own? You know... if something happened to you."

"What's going to happen to me?"

"I don't know. Maybe you'll get eaten by a crocodile."

Tanner looked around. "I don't think there are any crocodiles around here."

"That was just an example. More likely, you'll be eaten by zombies or shot by one of the violent convicts-no offense."

"None taken," he said, taking a big bite of an oatmeal-flavored breakfast bar.

"So, what do you think? Would I make it without you?"

He thought about it a moment.

"You might."

She nodded. "That's what I thought too."

"But don't worry about it," he said, pa.s.sing a bottle of water over to her. "I'm not going to get killed."

"You say that, but how do you know?"

"I'll let you in on a little secret."

"What's that?"

"I'm pretty sure I'm unkillable."

She laughed. "Unkillable?"

"Yep," he said, taking a long drink of water. "It means I can't be killed."

"I know what it means, but it's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

"Of course."

"How do you know?"

She shook her head as if trying to rattle something loose.

"Why would you even think something like that?"

"I'm basing it on historical evidence."

"What? Like George Was.h.i.+ngton?"

"No, not George Was.h.i.+ngton," he laughed. "Think of it this way. How many sc.r.a.pes have we been in?"

"I don't know. A lot. You tend to attract trouble."

"And have any of them killed me?"

"Well, no, but that doesn't mean-"

"Like I said," he thumped his chest. "Unkillable."

"I've never ridden on a motorcycle," Samantha said, running her hand across the Harley Davidson's black and orange fairing.