Flagg’s voice comes over the walkie-talkie, swallowed by the wind.
“Get ready,” he says. “This could be it.”
“It,” says Simon. “This could be what?”
On the floor, Javier stirs, sits up.
“？Qué hora es?”
The brake lights of the pickup truck flash, a solid red. The pickup slows. Simon comes to his knees, his right hand grabbing a seat belt strap. He looks through the windshield in time to see Flagg jog left and pass the pickup, speeding up. Katniss mirrors him on the right. As the pickup slows, Duane is forced to brake hard. Simon lurches forward as Flagg and Katniss race off toward the horizon.
“They left us,” he says, as the van skids to a halt. Ahead of them, the pickup has swung left and stopped across the road. Before Simon can process what’s happening, the three clowns are out of the truck bed, coming toward the van, weapons up.
“Calm. Everybody be calm,” says the Prophet. He tells Javier to lie down on the floor, covers him with a blanket.
“No te muevas,” he says.
Gunshots come from behind the van. Simon turns. Cyclops jumps from his bike and advances, firing. The clowns never flinch. With bullets whipping past, they turn as one and fire. Simon throws himself to the floor. Behind the van, Cyclops goes down like a marionette with its strings cut. And then the side door of the van is sliding open, and the bald clown is there, his shotgun up.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “back by popular demand, it’s the one and only get outta the fuckin’ van.”
He waves them out with his weapon. The two long-haired clowns have taken up spots at the front and rear bumpers.
They pull Louise from the van, chuckling with icy greed at their prize—a Black woman, young and sexy, like a gift from the devil.
This is it, thinks Louise. Death. She feels it in her body, for her body is what they want to kill. Her body, which contains the history of all bodies like hers, bodies dragged from cars and strung up from trees, bodies dragged by horses, bodies raped and beaten.
Behind her, Simon steps into the sun, squinting. He looks at Cyclops, lying dead in the road. There is blood pooling under his head, this boy with the stupid code name. This stupid, pimply boy who played with guns and has been filled with holes. A teenager who once drew pictures in crayon and climbed trees. Whose parents named him and held him and cried, and is now
A11
A1one
The bald clown marches them to the shoulder, lines them up against a tall fence. He separates the “whites from the coloreds,” putting a foot in Duane’s back to make his point clear. Muscling Louise in next to him, the youngest clown makes sure to get a handful of ass, because isn’t that what these Black girls are all about, shaking that ass? Louise knows better than to complain. Best to become invisible, an absence in the punishing sun.
His hands up, Simon thinks of Javier hiding in the van. The land is barren here, a flat mesa four thousand feet above sea level, devoid of trees. A large jut of rocks fifteen feet behind the fence rises like a wave, throwing a shadow on the road.
At his feet Simon sees dried flowers and a framed photo. In it a young Mexican-American woman smiles shyly.
A shrine. They are standing on a shrine.
The clowns wander over, guns low. They are bedraggled, sunburned, an absurd patrol circling the isolated alpine towns of southwest Texas, looking for （（（kikes））） and spies. Their white face paint has melted and run down into the collars of their Hawaiian shirts, leaving streaks of pink and smudges of red on their weathered faces. The youngest is probably thirty-five. The bald clown wears red gas station sunglasses. A hunting knife sticks out of his belt. He was in DC the day they stormed the Capitol, standing under a portrait of LBJ laughing while his buddy J.D. took a shit in a stairwell and wiped it on the wall. As on that day, Bald Clown wears a black tactical vest covered in replacement shells for his shotgun, giving him a jaunty, candy-coated feel. He chews Big Red gum. Simon can smell the cinnamon bite from here.
“Nice van,” says Big Red.
Duane nods, unsure what the etiquette is when being placed against a fence by a band of rabid clowns. The tallest one pulls a pack of Kools from his Kevlar vest, shakes out a butt.
The Prophet steps forward. “We’re on a mission from God,” he says.
The clowns raise their guns, alarmed by the sudden movement and his lack of fear.
“Back in line, four-eyes,” says the shorter long-haired clown. He is full lipped, his face acne scarred.
The Prophet makes no move to retreat. “You will let us pass or face His wrath.”