“The magic device says Missouri.”
Simon is about to ask, What’s in Missouri? when he sees a clown standing under a streetlight. Or more accurately, he sees a bald man in a clown costume, his face painted white, his nose red, exaggerated black lines painted over his eyes. You know, a clown. Except this clown has a thick mustache and he is smoking a cigarette. Plus the costume is filthy, streaked, and the clown has an AR-15 strapped across his chest, its long black barrel pointed down. A clown with a rifle. But it’s his eyes. How his eyes are on the van, watching as it passes. So much so that Simon feels like the clown is staring straight at him.
A filthy, mustached, middle-aged clown with an assault rifle looking at Simon.
And then they are past him. Simon turns to look through the back windows.
“Did you see that?” he asks.
“What?” the Prophet asks.
“It was a—clown. With a gun.”
The Prophet glances to the front of the van, his eyes meeting Duane’s in the rearview. Something passes between them, a flash of fear, as if deep down somewhere they’re not surprised, that they were afraid this might happen. But it’s too soon.
Too soon.
“Did he see you?”
Simon shrugs, shakes his head, worried that if he says yes, it will make the clown real. Not that he knows why that would be bad. But something inside tells him to say no.
“What’s in Missouri?” he asks.
“Shit,” says Duane, braking hard. The van slows, stops. They are at a crosswalk, traffic light a solid green overhead. Ahead of them a large crowd moves across the intersection. A river of people with no beginning and no end. They hold signs and banners—lit from the front by a distant orange glow, flickering. And from behind, a counter light, flashing blue and red. Smoke drifts through the intersection.
Save Our Children.
A father in a blue Izod climbs a lamppost. He is calling, Scarlett? Scarlett? A group of mothers walk past below, weeping, but whether from emotion or tear gas it’s impossible to discern.
Simon and the others sit for a moment, watching thousands of human beings move silently through darkness. The primal scream of parents wailing for their young. Are they marching to protect their children or bring them back? Not for the first time, Simon wonders if this whole escape has been a dream. He rubs his eyes, then, lowering his hands, catches movement to his left. He turns. Clowns move past the van. Dozens of them. Men in their thirties and forties, some with beer bellies and beards, some rail thin with amphetamine eyes. They wear flak jackets over striped blouses and balloon pants, their mouths obscured by painted masks, grinning ceaselessly into the darkness. Some wear night-vision goggles and carry automatic weapons. Others are in Hawaiian shirts, their red noses obscene.
“Duane,” says the Prophet.
“I see them,” says Duane. “Hold on.”
He shifts the van into reverse, begins inching backward, hoping not to draw the clowns’ attention.
“Nobody move,” he whispers.
Slowly they reverse. Simon stares out his window, hypnotized by the spectacle. The clowns close on the crowd, swaggering. And then the clown with the mustache is there, walking beside the van, his AR-15 up. His eyes find Simon’s. He smiles, lifts his left hand to his face, holding his index finger to his lips. Ssshh.
Simon raises his crumpled paper bag—unaware that he’s even removed it from his pocket—the only weapon he has against a world that wants to destroy him. He presses it over his mouth as the van clears the clowns, speeding up, the world moving past them in reverse, headlights illuminating the clown army. Then a protester notices the armed clowns, screams. Others turn. The men in big shoes raise their weapons. Through ragged, paper bag breaths, Simon sees a question cross Louise’s face—lit by the headlight bounce—the heady, giddy horror of what’s going to happen next? And then the headlights pan right off the crowd as Duane turns the wheel, spinning the van and quick-shifting into drive, his foot on the floor now, racing away from the kindling and the spark.
*
They reach St. Louis around 4:00 a.m. This is where the twitches hit, the dental buzz of nerves beginning to creep back into their skulls. It’s been eight hours since their last pill. Sertraline, olanzapine, diazepam. Simon feels it the worst, a hollow throb behind the eyes, but Louise isn’t far behind. She rolls down the window, sticks her bare feet into the wind, her pulse fluttering. She can’t get the image of those clowns out of her head, the silent coordination as they raised their rifles.