Clowns, p.1
Clowns, page 1
part #20 of First Contact Series
Clowns
Copyright © 2022.
All rights reserved.
The right of Peter Cawdron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover art: Creepy clown with her finger on her lips by InHausCreative as represented by iStockPhoto.
Dedication
To you—the reader
Without you, science fiction isn’t possible
Quote
“Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”
Shakespeare: Macbeth
Preface
First Contact occurred a decade ago with a traveling circus in the high-altitude desert plateau of Uzbekistan. The US Government has been covertly monitoring extraterrestrial activity around Earth since then but has struggled to make contact. They've kept tabs on the circus and its founder, Buster Al-Hashimi.
Four years ago, Buster returned to the US to start a counter-culture group called The Clowns, challenging the sociopolitical status quo in America.
Melee
Breezy walks into a drug store at the back of a hospital in Washington, D.C. Hair dye, nail clippers and tweezers line the aisle. The store is a blend of the mundane and exotic—licorice and laxatives. Hard drugs are kept in a safe in the storeroom. Breezy isn’t here to get a prescription filled. She got bored waiting for her partner to sneak out of the emergency department for a few minutes, so she snuck inside to get a drink. Back in the parking lot, parched lips demanded a bottle of chilled water. Now, it’s a question of Coke or Pepsi.
She opens the fridge door and grabs a soda. Fuck the gym. Spin class can wait. The label on the back of the can says, no sugar, no caffeine, no calories. Hell, it’s only a few steps away from being tap water.
Breezy pulls out her smartphone and checks her socials while waiting in line to pay at the counter. Facebook is meme central. Twitter is for whiners. Telegram is encrypted comms for bitching about work. Tiktok is for extroverts on steroids and their wannabes. She ends up on Instagram, knowing it’s full of pretty little lies. Ah, the serene lives of everyone but her. Photogenic smiles, slender arms, full busts, slim hips and chiseled abs—it all looks so goddamn easy. She looks down at the can of soda in her hand, wondering if hitting the gym is a better idea. Of course, it is. If the claims of no sugar and no caffeine are correct, it shouldn’t matter—and yet somehow it does. ‘Both’ is an option but she knows only one will win. Breezy needs a dopamine hit, and now! Fuck the ‘gram. She closes the app, ignoring all those perfect smiles, stunning backdrops and carefully manicured lies about being happy. Breezy’s mind doesn’t work like that.
Perhaps the wiring is crossed somewhere deep within her central cortex. As much as she says she hates it, deep down, she loves the rollercoaster ride that is her life. The slow clank of the chain drawing her car up high on the narrow track is always followed by the screaming terror of rushing down the other side. Somehow she always survives, at least so far. Besides, if the ‘gram were honest, her buddy Helena would admit lying on the beach in Cancun is more novelty than nirvana. Breezy would be bored within minutes. Fucking sand gets everywhere.
She looks at her nails. They could do with a fresh coat of acrylic. Her cuticles are visible as her nails grow out. Why bother? Fashion is an endless cycle of keeping up appearances, but who cares? No one she knows will notice either way.
Four men enter from the street. They’re dressed in jeans and long sleeve plaid shirts. It’s hot outside. Checkered tartan is horribly out of fashion, even for hillbillies. Baseball caps sit low against their ears, hiding their eyes from security cameras. Bandanas hang loosely around their necks. Within seconds, each piece of cloth is raised, being positioned over the nose. What is this? A covid outbreak or the wild west?
Don’t do it, she thinks. Don’t fuck up my Saturday. Please.
Breezy’s already dialing 911. She lowers the volume on the side of her phone. This is a one-way call. She knows what’s about to unfold. Shit is going down. It’s the way the team moves. Two out wide with the lead asshole jogging up to the counter. That leaves one guy by the main door. After spotting them in the mirror, Breezy keeps her head forward, pretending to be caught unaware. No eye contact. She slips her phone behind a sign advertising incontinence pads, putting it face down in the shadows. On the other end, there’s a whisper as someone says, “911. What’s your emergency?” Listen up, babe. You’re going to have to figure that shit out for yourself.
“Hands in the air,” a shotgun says just inches from her head. “Phones! I want your goddamn phones!”
The old lady ahead of Breezy surrenders her phone. A puddle forms on the carpet around her feet.
Breezy’s got her hands up. She gets a barrel shoved into her shoulder.
“Your fucking phone!”
“It’s up in the room,” Breezy says, slipping in a stutter for realism. “I—I’m visiting my aunt. I’m just down here to get a Coke. Please—don’t shoot.”
There. That should be enough for 911 to get a handle on what’s going down.
Visiting your aunt, seriously? That’s the best you got, Breezy? What’s her name? Aunt May? Who do you think you are? Gwen Stacy? Mary Jane Watson?
“Get down on the floor!”
Breezy ain’t no hero, not in the traditional John McClane sense of the term. She knows the drill. Compliance is the best strategy for surviving an armed robbery. Hugging the carpet ain’t a bad option, but she starts by sliding down the side of the counter and sitting with her back against the thin chipboard panel. Breezy puts her arm around the old lady, comforting her, wondering how much this punk will let her get away with. She has no desire to be taken hostage, but if possible, she’d like to feed a little more information to the 911 operator.
These fuckers only see two things—speed bumps and the open road. Get in their way, and they’ll run a steamroller down the street. Stay calm. Blend in with the curtains. That’s the strategy. Breezy needs to look scared. She keeps her head low. They’re after a haul of class-one drugs. No tricks. Only treats. But this ain’t Halloween.
Breezy knows the odds. These damn fools will be sitting in a jail cell by this time tomorrow. And she’ll be lounging on the couch with a tube of Pringles, watching TV and laughing about this with her daughter. Just give it time, Breezy. No one needs to get hurt.
Perp number one jumps the counter. He yells at the attendant, rattling off the drugs he wants. The poor girl is shaking like a leaf. From the acne on her face, she’s in her late teens. She’s probably working here as a side-hustle while at college. She doesn’t seem to know what he’s after. A senior clerk comes over with hands raised and points at the back room. The perp unzips a backpack and starts the harvest.
Breezy pushes her head against the counter behind her, trying to get as close to her phone as possible. In a whisper, she says, “Mount Hermon Hospital. Drug heist. We’re in the drug store on the main road. Four perps. One out the back raiding the place. One watching the street. The others are on the hospital entrance and the fire exit. I make six civilians and two staff. Best option: Let the team leave. They’re not interested in hostages, so don’t give them a reason to change their minds. Corner them on the street for an easy takedown.”
The older woman looks up at her with alarm. Breezy holds a finger to her lips. She’s regretting leaving her government-issued Glock locked in the glovebox. Fuck. What the hell is she doing here? Breezy was supposed to be doing Susan a favor, dropping off an early dinner, so she didn’t have to wait until her shift finished. Why the hell are there so many assholes in this world?
The guy she’s designated as perp number three is the internal lookout. He’s over by the entrance to the hospital, and he’s as nervous as hell. A long corridor links the drug store with the hospital reception area. Rather than being part of either building, the corridor is a covered walkway connecting the two. Perp number three is hating this. He’s got regret written all over his furrowed brow. Yes, fuckwit. This is a bad idea! Going along with these guys is the worst idea of your stupid, miserable life.
It’s all Breezy can do not to shout at him.
Dumbass!
He fidgets, waving his gun around as he dances on the spot. Does he need to pee? His poor gun discipline is going to get someone killed. Breezy’s tempted to get up and help perp number one with the loot. The sooner these idiots get out of here, the better. Every additional moment perp number one spends messing around in the storeroom erodes their chances of survival a little further. Perp number three’s got his finger on the trigger of his gun. If he gets panicked by a car door slamming, he’ll fire off a round.
A security guard comes huffing down the corridor from the hospital reception. Someone’s alerted him to the robbery, but he’s making as though he’s rushing for a slice of birthday cake. He’s got his hand on his holstered revolver, but he doesn’t draw. He doesn’t seem too concerned about the prospect of being shot. White shirt. Polished shoes. Shiny badge. Get the fuck out of here, Chief Wiggum! Leave this to the professionals.
“Put down the gun,” he says to the perp with the full bladder.
It’s four against one. What the hell is this guy thinking? Wait for the cavalry, Wiggum.
&n bsp; Breezy’s heard plenty of gunfire. Usually, it’s at the range. Noise-canceling earmuffs transform it into little more than a pop! Even in the street, gunfire is loud but not impossibly so. Within the confines of the store, though, it’s as though the god of thunder has descended on Earth.
BOOOOOOM!
The crack of gunfire is so loud and sharp it hurts her ears.
This heist is going south fast.
Chief Wiggum still hasn’t drawn his clunky old revolver from the thick leather holster wrapped around his oversized waist. He clutches a red patch soaking through his white shirt and falls into a shelf, knocking it into the aisle. Pepto-Bismol scatters across the floor. The sheet metal shelving collapses along with him, leaving panels and cross-braces scattered on the carpet.
“What the fuck?” perp number one yells from the other side of the counter, shouting at number three. He’s angry. He looks as though he could shoot his own man.
Breezy has no choice. Well, she does, but she can’t let someone bleed out in a goddamn hospital. Slowly, she gets to her feet, holding her hands high.
“What do you think you’re doing?” perp number one says to her with utter disbelief in his voice. He’s not very bright, but she keeps that thought to herself.
“He’s dying,” she says, crouching slightly as she walks. Breezy makes herself as small as possible while still keeping her hands raised. Small target. No threat. Come on, asshole. Grow a conscience. Perp number one is caught in indecision, which is a decision in itself. He lets her continue.
“I’m a nurse,” she says. It’s yet another lie, but who’s counting. Sure, Breezy. Nothing says nurse like a death metal t-shirt, torn jeans and dark regrowth coming through from the straggly bleached blonde hair roots on top of her head. Ah, so you’re a nurse that works here, but you also happen to be visiting your aunt upstairs and left your phone there—no inconsistencies detected!
Perp number one trains his shotgun on her.
Breezy is bold. Shock is her only ally. As big and as bad and as tough as perp number one thinks he is, he’s an amateur. He’s on the verge of panicking. It’s the old no-one-was-supposed-to-get-hurt mantra. He needs convincing. She looks at him and adds, “I can help.”
Perp number one tightens his lips. He’s on the verge of making a very bad decision. Goddamn, you stupid control freak. Let it go. His hand tightens on the grip of his shotgun. His white knuckles don’t inspire her with confidence.
“Listen,” she says, coming to a halt by an aisle with feminine products on display. “You’ve got what you want. No one has to die. This is a hospital. I can save him. This doesn’t have to become a murder scene.”
Oh, yeah. The M-word gets him. A felony murder conducted in the course of a crime carries a minimum 30-year sentence in the District of Columbia. He does not want that hanging over him or his crew. He waves her on with his shotgun and rushes back to collect more drugs. Time is the enemy, not her.
Breezy grabs a packet of tampons and a couple of sanitary pads. She’s deliberately sloppy, dumping entire boxes on the carpet in front of the fallen guard. Chaos needs to be met with chaos to succeed. Anything less is a position of weakness.
“Don’t you fucking do anything dumb,” perp number three says, still waving his handgun around. He’s stepped back from the guard, but he’s towering over her. Breezy is tempted to quote the criminal statute for murder at him and ask what he wants for Christmas in twenty-fifty-five, but a nurse wouldn’t know that. Come on, nurse Gwen Mary Jane Stacy Watson. Get it together.
“I’m not going to let him die,” she says, tearing open some packaging.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Breezy ignores the perp, opening the guard’s shirt. She shoves a tampon into the gunshot wound. She uses a cardboard insertion tube to work the tampon deep within the bloody mess, leaving the thin, trailing string visible against his skin. She’s bluffing. A tampon isn’t going to stop internal bleeding—only direct pressure will do that, but pressure is imprecise. Press where? Directly over the hole? Off to one side? Where the hell are his arteries located? Besides, pressure will only delay the inevitable. He needs surgery. She’s got to get him the hell out of here.
Breezy’s trying to look confident in front of the perp. She needs him to forget about her. She needs him to see her as a medic, not a threat. It’s only then she can make her move.
She takes the dying man’s hand and makes eye contact with him, saying, “Hang in there, okay?”
Breezy tears open a sanitary pad and pushes it into the guard’s palm. She drags his hand up to his chest, saying, “Press here.”
“Why aren’t you pressing?” perp three asks. It’s a good question. Perhaps he’s not that dumb after all.
Breezy empties the cardboard carton containing the tampons, spilling them on the floor beside the guard. She’s using that confusion as cover to make for the guard’s gun, but he’s got a secure holster. It’s the kind that only allows someone to draw straight up, reducing the chance anyone could grab it from the side. It’s likely to snag if she grabs the pistol grip. Damn it!
Breezy thinks about her options. The guard’s carrying a Smith and Wesson snub-nosed .38 Special. He might as well be carrying a Nerf gun. The standard operating procedure for US security guards is to only load five of the six chambers to avoid an accidental discharge. From her perspective, that means there’s a minimum of four to five seconds from snatch to shot. It’s too goddamn long. By the time she pops the leather catch on his holster and draws—assuming she can pull the gun along the length of his body without the holster impeding her—the gun will be useless. Perp three will have plenty of time to react. Besides, she needs to turn the cylinder to a chamber with a live round and cock the hammer. By that time, she’ll have already taken two slugs to the chest from perp number three. Great. That’s just fucking great.
The perp over by the front door sticks his head around the corner to see what all the yelling is about. The perp on the far side of the store, over by the fire door, looks along the front of the aisles at the three of them. Okay, so these guys are easily distracted. Fucking clowns!
“Get away from him,” perp three says, seeing her hands drifting close to the holster as she gathers the tampons.
“Easy,” Breezy says, pulling a second sanitary pad from its wrapping. She’s stalling, looking for other options. She shoves it under the guard’s fingers—not that it’s helping. Blood pools on the carpet. He’s bleeding out. There’s an emergency department not more than fifty yards away down the corridor, just past the hospital reception. After the gunshot, it’ll be in lockdown, but the doctors there could save the guard’s life. Besides, her partner Susan won’t leave anyone behind. If she can, she’ll roll her patients into one of the other wards, but she won’t abandon anyone in need.
“Listen,” Breezy says to perp number three, trying to appeal to reason. “I need to get this guy into the emergency room. I’m going to drag him down that corridor, okay?”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Breezy closes her eyes, pressing them shut for a moment, wanting to manage her frustration. Although it might look like she’s trying to flee, she’s not. Breezy’s no coward. She’s trying to save a life—and she’d like to provide the cops outside with some intel, but that motive is secondary. Perp number three is backing her into a corner. Breezy will not sit idly to one side while the guard slips away.
“He’s going to die. Do you really want that on your conscience?”
“You’re not leaving.”
Conscience? Breezy should have said rap sheet. She should have needled the guy about going to prison. As it is, her ire is raised.
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be back,” she says, but coming from a short Hispanic woman in her mid-thirties, this isn’t the threat she’d like to think it is. Breezy’s no muscle-bound robotic terminator sneering as he drops his lines with a thick Austrian accent. If anything, her comment is perplexing. From the furrow on the perp’s brow, it seems he can’t figure out what she means.
Even if there are only five rounds in the .38 Special, Breezy’s happy to give these chumps a run. She’ll take her chance in the shooting gallery at the county fair. Four-to-one odds are still in her favor.
