Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand (17 page)

“Sorry,” Dustin timidly apologizes.

“S’all right.” A gloved hand is held aloft to
sign no harm. “Tell me, mysterious shadow voice, how do I get to
Fraggle Rock?”

“…Do you mean Eagle Rock?” Deatherage
says.

The clown confers with his map. “Yup! No
wonder I can’t find the place.”

“We’re heading there in the morning…”
Deatherage tells him. He emerges from the gloom after receiving a
sharp elbow to the ribs from Dustin. “Would you like to join
us?”

“I see…” The clown takes on a serious air,
hitching his thumbs into the waistband of his wide and loudly
colored pants. “You want someone tough watching your back. A
certified bad ass. I’m in.”

The clown is told where they are parked and
how to get there. Then Dustin and Deatherage walk back to the
Camaro, and Dustin complains through the entire stroll. “I told you
he creeps me out. Why did you tell him he could join us?”

His whining is ignored. Obviously Deatherage
couldn’t let a fellow survivor go it alone, no matter how creepy he
is.

The clown’s van approaches over the dark
rutted field like a UFO from space, pulling alongside the car.
Instead of exiting the ice cream truck, the clown lifts its side
shutter. His tiny brown bowler has been replaced by a white paper
hat that sits atop his blue tresses. “What’ll it be, folks? I’m
offering everything on the menu at Brock Rottom low prices.”

“Don’t you mean ‘rock bottom?’” Dustin
asks.

“No. It’s like the sign,” he replies,
pointing above his head.

Letters in the neon sign have gone black.
Dustin tries to make it out, but looks at the ice cream man and
shrugs. So the clown sticks his head out of his window to see the
dead lights. “Well, that’s embarrassing.”

A few strikes against the sheet metal makes
the sign flicker to life, declaring the van as
Brock
Rottom’s
Traveling
Treats
.

“Oh, your name is Brock Rottom,” it dawns on
Dustin.

“That’s what it says on my diploma from
NYUK.”

“Nyuk?” Deatherage asks while perusing the
menu on the side of the van

“The New York University of Klowning,” Brock
says in a sophisticated tone. “It’s very prestigious. I can’t
believe you haven’t heard of it.”

“No one’s heard of it,” Dustin says, missing
the joke.

“Where did you go to school?” Brock asks,
sounding offended. He puffs up his chest as if ready to fight.

“I…I…”

Deatherage laughs, and he pats Dustin on the
back to tell him to relax.

“What’ll it be, boys?”

“It’s too cold for ice cream.” Deatherage
still ponders the various flavors and novelties.

“I’ve got hot stuff too.” Brock points
towards the rear of his ride to a café style chalkboard, but the
handwritten items are smeared and nearly illegible thanks to bloody
handprints. “Friggin’ zombies.”

Deatherage decides to wake Erica in case she
wants something more substantial to eat. She gives a bewildered
smile to the clown chef, and mumbles something about wondering if
this is a dream.

“I see a lady who wants a foot long wiener,”
the clown jokes, handing her an over-sized hotdog.

“Condiments are under the window,” Deatherage
tells her.

The survivors wrap themselves in blankets
against the cold as they sit on their car eating. The clown tells
them he is from Breckinridge, a town south of Waterloo.

“So, you must have been working when this
hit?” Erica says.

“Nope. It was my day off.”

The three others look to one another then
back to the guy in grease paint. “In my spare time I entertain kids
at hospitals. I also do parties and comedy clubs. No kids are
allowed at the club shows, it can get a bit raunchy.”

“Have you ever played at the Flag Pole?”
Dustin inquires.

“The strip club?” The clown raises a
painted-on eyebrow. “That’s ridiculous… The point of preforming is
to be noticed. Who the hell would pay attention to me there?”

Dustin feels embarrassed as the others
snicker at his expense.

The clown sighs. “I was actually supposed to
raise the spirits of some sick kids at Olive Grove Hospital, but…
you know… zombies.”

“I have baby wipes if you want to take your
make-up off,” Erica offers.

“Oh, no thanks. I never take it off.”

“Won’t that stuff clog your pores?”

“That’s the beauty of it. If it does break me
out, no one will notice.” The clown laughs, but the others don’t.
“I was a troubled teen. I was using every drug I could get my hands
on. Even things that aren’t technically drugs. I once huffed
gasoline until it was no longer flammable. It was all
self-medication because I was horribly depressed. After my third
suicide attempt my folks were at the end of their rope, so they
sent me to this camp up north. The Foundation is a place for teens
to rehabilitate and learn better coping skills.”

“I’ve heard about that place,” Dustin pipes
up. His own parents had threatened to send him there a few
times.

“It’s a great program.” Though a smile is
painted on his lips and cheeks, Brock wears a serious expression
under the thick make-up. “One step in our recovery was to perform
at a children’s fair. They invited schools from all over the
tri-state area to come and be entertained by us, and sick kids from
the hospitals. I chose to do a face painting booth, because I
figured it would be the easiest possible thing I could do to
fulfill the requirement. To do it right I decided to look the part
and painted my own face.

“It was like I was transformed into the kind
of person I always wanted to be. I was funny and outgoing, people
loved me. Best of all I was happy. The grease paint was better than
Prozac… I haven’t gone a day without it since. I overcame multiple
chemical addictions only to become hooked on clowning.”

“No patch for that I bet,” Deatherage
says.

“Nor would I want one.” Brock Rottom says,
sounding like his more jovial self. “I owe everything to the
Foundation. So I work hard to pay back my debt to the world by
sending donations to them. That’s all the place asks of those they
help. Send what you can spare, if you have anything to spare. The
counselors saw how well I was doing with the make-up on, and they
sent a request to the chairman of the charity to pay my tuition to
the university.”

“That’s a great story.” Erica smiles.

“What’s really great is that my truck is
entirely paid for. Most of my transactions are cash, so I only
declare what I have to. As far as the IRS is concerned, I’m below
the poverty line. I have a lot to send to the Foundation and I
still make a killing. When life gives you government cheese, make
nachos.” Brock crunches a tortilla chip for affectation.

Sore muscles and stiff necks wake up
Deatherage and the others. He groans as he pulls his rigid frame
from the car and out into the surprisingly warm morning. The
brightly colored clown greets him, and he squints his eyes as he
speaks. “Brock, tell me you have coffee on your truck.”

“Nope,” the clown says. “But, I have plenty
inside of it. Along with many breakfast choices and pastries. How
does a sausage biscuit sound?”

“Great!” The soldier straightens his aching
back. “How do you have such a wide selection in that little
van?”

“I’m a clown. We have a knack for packing as
much as we can into a vehicle.”

Everyone enjoys a quick breakfast before
heading out as a small caravan. They hope to arrive at the base by
late afternoon, barring any problems. The two vehicles head north,
sticking to rural roads and avoiding heavily congested areas.
Deatherage pilots the lead car as fast as his spotter declares an
area safe. Dustin peers down the road before them through a set of
field glasses.

“Slow it down,” Dustin says suddenly.

“What is it?” Deatherage taps the brakes to
warn Brock of the deceleration.

“There’s a line of cars parked on the side of
the road,” Dustin says. They’ve seen many abandoned vehicles, but
this is different. The train is organized, evenly spaced, and
pointed in their direction.

The two cars halt as a precaution. Deatherage
hates stopping since they are so close to their goal--less than an
hour by his estimation.
It
certainly
looks
like
a
convoy
, he thinks as he surveys the
scene. “There are people sitting on the road. Actually, they seem
to be kneeling. Three people in orange vests are pacing…”

The lead vehicle is a large black pick-up
that is angled across the lane. The men have rifles. Brock Rottom
has joined the soldier, staring at the situation through an
obscenely large pair of binoculars. He speaks Deatherage’s exact
thoughts, “This doesn’t look good.”

Brock’s view of the events unfolding are far
superior to Deatherage’s, and the clown delivers great details.
Bullet holes pepper the sides of the middle vehicles, and these
cars are filled with frightened faces. The smallest of the three
thugs holding these people captive slings his rifle so he can comb
his thick black hair. The other two fellows are morbidly obese.

The clown tenses with anger, and he watches
as the preening man grabs a woman by her arm and drags her away
from the others. The distance makes her screams of protest sound
small as the evil man forces her to join him on the other side of
the black truck. The man’s shouts are incoherent growls, but Brock
and Deatherage soon realize these are commands as the woman
reluctantly returns to her knees while the man unzips his fly.

“There’s kids down there,” Brock says, then
he rushes to his lunch wagon before becoming a colorful blur
heading towards the horrible scenario. He’s now carrying a unicycle
that he grabbed from a rack on the back of his truck.

The woman at the villain’s mercy refuses to
go through with his demands, and she grimaces as his hands grope
and explore her beneath her white tank top. The lady’s eyes slip
away from the offensive object she is being threatened and she
turns her head toward Brock. Her puzzled expression draws the
rapist’s attention as well.

Brock balances on his unicycle, juggling pins
and heading straight for the villain.

He hurls the pins with such great velocity
the first one dents the truck’s door. The second and third
projectiles strike the villain in his throat and exposed groin,
dropping him to the ground. But the clown doesn’t stop. Instead he
allows himself to fall and slide under the high truck, while the
unicycle skitters along the asphalt making sparks.

Another of the large men drops his gun and
hides behind the other as he shrieks, “Clown! Clown!”

Before the man’s human shield can raise his
weapon, Brock rolls on his side, fishing a black revolver out of
his fake potbelly. “Let me guess, he’s afraid of clowns, right?
Thinks we’re creepy? Follow his example and drop your rifle.”

Brock remains lying on the ground with his
pistol trained on the men in hunting vests, and he keeps this
casual pose until he hears the vehicles of his party approach.

“Jesus, Brock!” Deatherage exclaims. “We
didn’t know you were armed.”

“Well, a clown can’t be too careful these
days.” He relaxes his gun so he can stand, since his friends have
the assailants in their sights.

“Thank you! That was incredible.” The woman
in the white tank top walks up to the clown and kisses his heavily
made up cheek. “It’s more than my husband was going to do for
me.”

“Aw, Gloria!” a man among the released
captives groans. “What could I do?”

“It was nothing, really,” Brock says
nervously, not wanting to fuel the domestic squabble. “You don’t
major in unicycling at a place like NYUK for nothing.”

“You went to the clown school in New York?”
she asks.

“Yes I did!” Brock smiles smugly at
Dustin.

Introductions are made as the three ‘hunters’
lay on their chests on the road, and their hands and ankles lashed
with donated shoelaces.

Dustin, who was presented to the grateful
band as Chachi, sees a pretty girl among them that catches his eye.
She’s about his age and looks familiar. He wants to ask her where
she goes to school, because she is wearing a tee-shirt under her
thin hoodie that is from a haunted house attraction near Waterloo,
but all the vehicles in the train that make up the caravan have out
of state plates. The girl is Latino and well out of his league, but
he hopes his affiliation with the heroic team will help his cause
in chatting her up.

While Brock prepares a feast for the
travelers, Dustin runs his fingers through his black hair and
wishes he had a mirror. He strides confidently towards the girl who
stands with a grey-haired gentleman and Deatherage. His friend is
telling the pair of Waterloo when Dustin joins them. He nods along
with Deatherage’s story, but isn’t listening. He is preoccupied and
wondering if his buddy has already set his sights on the girl, not
that that would stop him. Just as he’s about to pipe in with his
own twist on things, Brock tells the group that the food is ready,
and he misses his window.

The caravan of civilians has declined to
accompany the smaller group to the base in favor of resuming their
trek south. The older gentleman that spoke to Deatherage has
property down there, but they happily take advantage of what the
clown has to offer in the way of provisions. The proud entertainer
makes balloon animals for the children and makes sure to send them
on their way with plenty of treats. The travelers also receive some
of the rifles the other men used to assault them, taking almost all
of the weapons from the racks in their trucks.

The black pick-up and a much smaller red one
had appeared out of nowhere and just opened fire upon the
travelers. The savages muscled them to stop. They had no choice but
to surrender, having little means of self-defense.