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.”
Simon reaches for the Prophet’s hand, tries to pull him back in line, but the Prophet shakes him off.
“Looks like we won the Lotto,” says Cigarette Clown, nodding toward Duane and Louise. “Couple a cockroaches from the city.”
Big Red steps forward, makes a show of sniffing Duane. “What are you, half chink?”
Duane sets his jaw. “I’m half Japanese and half Black.”
“Which half?” says Acne Clown. “Top or bottom?”
Louise hikes up her jeans, a tiredness settling into her bones, fueled by jagged adrenaline. She’s exhausted by the whole tired cliché of it. For her journey to end this way, her death divorced from her life, her specific life—the girl with the cleaning addiction from San Rafael, whose grandmother used to make flapjacks and bacon every Saturday, the girl with scars on her thighs—that girl isn’t here now, the one we call Louise Conklin. Instead, there is a standin, a proxy for every African, every Jamaican, every Haitian who has ever had the nerve to draw breath in this land. She will die here anonymously on this spot, thinks Louise, and when they brag of her death, all she will be is her color.
“Are you gonna rape us or kill us or what?” she says, because just get it over with already.
The clowns exchange a look.
“Well, that depends,” says Big Red. “How come yer man came out shootin’?”
“Seriously?” says Louise. “You forced us off the road. And you’re armed.”
“You seen those zombie shows?” says Cigarette Clown. “That shit’s easy. The apocalypse. See a zombie, kill a zombie. But this shit here—van fulla faggots and race traitors—lotta guesswork and lies.”
“Or the Matrix,” says Acne Clown.
“Right. The fucking Matrix. This shit’s a simulation. Civilization. Democracy. We know what’s really going on. Sharia law, secret tribunals, the Frazzeldrip. Deep State election thieves with their Black Lives Matter bullshit. But we know what’s coming. Trust the plan. The Great Awakening. Long live the God King.”
Beside him, Big Red stands quietly chewing gum, smiling.
“The boogaloo’s here, baby,” finishes Acne Clown.
Big Red pulls his 9mm.
“Are you glowies?”
“Are we what?” says Louise.
“You know, glowies, spies.”
“Spies for who?”
“The three-letter boys—DEA, FBI, ATF.”
“Nope,” says Louise and starts for the van. “So, can we go?”
Acne Clown steps in front of her. “What’s yer hurry, slit?”
He presses his handgun to her temple. Simon sees the fear on her face.
“Make her suck the barrel,” says Cigarette Clown.
“Stop,” says the Prophet in a voice so commanding it quiets the wind. Acne Clown, who was lowering the gun to her mouth, stops, glances at Big Red, unsure. Big Red spits out his gum, walks over, and puts himself face-to-face with the Prophet, formerly known as Paul.
“Make us,” he says.