POPSICLE MAN

They listened.

"Do you think he's coming?" asked Heather.

"Shhhh!" Scott warned. "Just be quiet, will you?"

Together, their ears strained for sound. They hoped and prayed to hear the music. But instead of the heralding of salvation, they only heard the steady approach of damnation. Maniacal laughter and the honking of bicycle horns.

"They're getting closer," she whispered. "What're we gonna do?"

The twelve-year-old thought. He considered ducking into the burnt-out hull of the elementary school, but dismissed that idea. The thought of being trapped in a maze of empty classrooms with those sick bastards didn't appeal to him at all.

The trumpets of doom sounded again.

HONK-A HONK-A!  HONK-A HONK-A!

Loud and urgent. Like Harpo Marx from Hell.

"They're gaining on us!" whimpered the nine-year-old.

Scott stopped long enough to grab her by the shoulders and look her squarely in the eyes. "Listen to me. Whatever happens… no matter how bad it gets… never cry. Don't give them the satisfaction. If you do, it's like blood to sharks. They'll tear you apart."

The girl's lip quivered a second longer, then stopped. "Okay."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"Come on," he urged, grabbing her by the hand. "We'll stay out here in the open. It'll give us more of a fighting chance… just in case he doesn't show up."

Somewhere behind them, something howled. Not a dog… more like someone attempting to sound like one.

Together, they ran across the scorched expanse of the playground, their pockets jingling with the sound of loose coins.

It was a dark time for children.

Following the Burn, every sex offender on the face of the earth had seemed to declare open season. Every child molester who had once masqueraded as an ordinary citizen – daycare teachers, soccer coaches, Boy Scout leaders, priests – had cast off their masks of respectability and took full advantage of the deteriorating situation.

Some worked solo, but many formed tribes; factions like the

Baby Boppers, the Candymen, and the Short-Eyes Brigade. You could tell the preference of a Teddy-Bare by the collection of tiny teddy bear tattoos they wore on their face: pink for a girl, blue for a boy.

The worse of the tribes were the Clownies. Perverted sons of bitches in white makeup, red rubber noses, and multi-colored hair. They weren't only sick, they were damned sadistic. The Clownies specialized in prolonged pain and suffering. They used straight razors and battery acid, and got off on begging and pleading for mercy… which was never granted.

Scott Kersey had been dodging those bozos for the better part of a month now. There had been several close calls, especially that horrifying five minutes in the basement of an abandoned church, but so far he had eluded their sick intentions. But it was only a matter of time before they outwitted him. They knew who he was, especially the leader, and he knew they were hungry and gunning for him.

He had come across Heather a couple of days before. She had been wandering the back alleys of the city, scared and dirty, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and toting a pink Hanna Montana backpack. She said she had been on her own for three weeks. Scott had a hard time swallowing that. Atlanta was a hotbed for rape and torture. It was a miracle she had survived for such a long period of time.

But now that time was coming to an end.

Or, perhaps not, if only he would come.

The acrid stench of burnt earth filled their nostrils as their feet pounded the across the blackened grass of the playground. There was a rumor going around that a Clownie had been responsible for torching Atlanta. A clown named Sherman with a flamethrower and a hatred for Southerners. Scott recalled something his father, a history teacher, had once told him. "History repeats itself." In this case, it sure as hell did.

He drove his thoughts away from his home and family. Scott had been away at summer camp when the Burn had gone down. He remembered how his mother had pouted when they had dropped him off at the camp near Valdosta, how she simply didn't "feel right" about him being there on the Fourth of July. "We should all be together during the holidays," she had told him. He and his father had rolled their eyes and shrugged off her concerns, the way guys did in the face of female intuition.

But then guys can be shortsighted and stupid sometimes.

The morning after the Burn, the summer camp had turned into total chaos. The counselors had abandoned them, leaving to find their own families. Scott and eight other boys headed north to Atlanta. They had lost three of their party to a tribe of violet-hued cannibals – the Purple People-Eaters – near Macon. Before it was over with, Scott had been the only one who had made it there alive.

Just thinking about going home made him want to cry. Scott had found the house empty, the SUV missing, and his mom and dad gone. Thinking that they might have headed into the city for some crazy reason, he had done the same… and had regretted it ever since.

The howl of the Hound jolted him back into reality. They were closer now. Much closer. The tracker was damn good. The Clownies had found – or made – a good bloodhound. Obviously, it was due to Clymaraine, a cocaine substitute that had a peculiar side-effect… the enhancement of one's sense of smell, a dozen times stronger than an actual dog's.

"Over there," Scott whispered. "Behind the seesaws."

Heather nodded, breathing too hard to speak. Together, they ran passed the rusted swings and slide, and crouched behind a bank of three seesaws. They watched silently as forms emerged from the darkness: tall and short, fat and thin. Some rode unicycles, while the rest traveled on foot. They could hear the slap, slap, slap of their big, floppy shoes as they ran.

Scott thought it would have been pretty funny if they had arrived in one of those little clown cars… the kind that gave birth to a dozen or so when it came screeching to a stop. But on second thought, such a spectacle wouldn't have held any humor at all. There was nothing funny about a parade of child rapists popping out of a third-scale VW Bug.

"We know you're there, Scotty Boy," echoed a familiar voice, loud and obnoxious with a hint of a Southern drawl. "Come on out and play."

Scott felt sick to his stomach. It was the leader, a Clownie named Gacy. He had named himself after a serial killer with a fetish for white greasepaint and young boys. As a bank of clouds moved slowly eastward, the moon shown, casting pale light upon Gacy and his legion. He was grossly overweight, perhaps three hundred pounds or more, wearing a long, multi-colored overcoat and candy-cane striped pants. Below a curly rainbow wig, his pudgy face stood out in the moonlight, ghastly pale, one side of his mouth painted into a smile, the other into a frown.

"Come on, boy," Gacy urged. "We'll have fun. Sooooo much fun."

Scott shuddered. Absently, he drew an old Bowie knife from a sheath on his belt… a weapon he had found at the Georgia state museum during a scavenger hunt downtown.

Desperately, Heather glanced behind her. A tall chain-link fence separated the school playground from a weedy vacant lot on the other side. "Do you think we could make it over?"

Scott shook his head. "Some of them have guns… .22 rifles. They like to shoot you in the back, separate your spinal cord. Then you can't do anything but lay there while they… well, you know."

Heather was about to say something, when a loud howl startled them from the left. The Hound had circled the playground silently and was upon them.

The man was tall and lanky and completely naked. Except for one article of clothing, that was. He wore a filthy white gym sock upon his erect penis. The end of it had been crudely fashioned into a sock puppet, with button eyes and a mouth drawn with a red Sharpie marker. Raggedy Ann's smiling face where it never should have been.

"Ooooh, you're a real looker!" rasped the Hound, licking his lips. He danced around gleefully, like some perverted Chili Pepper throwback.  Reaching out, he grabbed a handful of Heather's blond hair and yanked her head back sharply. "Freckled face. Pretty blue eyes. And that sweet, little mouth…"

"You l-l-leave her alone, F-Fido!" stuttered a stubby clown with bloody teardrops tattooed down his cheeks. "We've got first d-dibs on her! You'll get your d-d-doggie treat later."

The Hound leered at him with contempt. "Ain't you ever heard of 'Finders keepers, losers wee –"

Before the Hound could finish his sentence, Scott acted. He stood and brought the heavy blade of the Bowie down on the base of the tracker's manhood. The edge was razor sharp. It cleaved flesh and muscle cleanly in half. The sock puppet fell to the scorched earth beneath a seesaw. It lay there for a moment, twitching, then deflated and grew still.

The Hound wheezed soundlessly for a long moment. Then he found his voice and shrieked at the top of his lungs. Blood jetted from the wound in his groin as he released his hold on Heather's hair. It was then that the seven-year-old acted. She reached over her shoulder into the pink backpack and took something from beneath the flap. Raising it, she centered the sights and put a 9mm slug squarely between Hound's eyes.

Scott watched as the man dropped to the ground and lay there, dead. Surprised, he looked over to see Heather holding a Glock semi-auto pistol in her slender hand.

"My dad gave it to me for my birthday," she explained.

Scott was impressed. "Cool."

"You better hope to hell you didn't kill Fido," yelled Gacy as the Clownies advanced toward them slowly. "I paid top-dollar for that freak."

Only fifty feet remained between the gang of clowns and the two children.

"What are we going to do?" asked Heather, her voice shrill with panic.

"I don't know," admitted Scott. His heart hammered in his chest. "Can you shoot 'em with that thing?"

"I've only got two more rounds in the clip," she told him sadly. "I could try for ol' fatso there, but I've really got a lousy aim." She looked at the naked man who lay face down on the ground between her and Scott. "Except if I'm really close up."

"Get ready, kiddies!" called Gacy. His mean eyes twinkled in the moonlight. "It's almost party time."

Then, when they were certain there was absolutely no escape, they heard it.

The sound of music… coming from the far side of the elementary school.

It was the peppy sound of a calliope. Like the kind you hear on a carnival midway… or from the speakers of an ice cream truck.

"It's him!" said Heather.

Scott nodded, searching the darkness beyond the advancing band of sadistic clowns. "The Popsicle Man."

The sound of the calliope grew steadily closer.

Gacy glanced over his shoulders with irritation. "Step up the pace, boys. Let's get this show on the road."

The stubby clown with the bloody tears spoke up. "B-B-but, what ab-b-bout…"

"Don't worry about that son-of-a-bitch!" snapped Gacy. "We can handle him."

Scott watched anxiously as the Clownies began to spread out, making their way through the blackened metropolis of the abandoned playground. "Come on, man," he hissed beneath his breath. "Come on!"

He looked over at Heather, expecting to find her eyes tearful and full of terror. Instead, a tiny smile crossed her face. "There he is."

The music of the calliope grew louder and, suddenly, around the corner of the school building, appeared a vehicle. It was a panel truck circa 1950, immaculate white with rounded fenders and gleaming chrome bumpers. A brass loudspeaker atop the cab spouted that happy circus tune, which was so very out of place considering the surroundings and the grim situation that was about to take place. On the sides of the truck's box-like body were colorful pictures of the ice cream treats it had once offered: Orange Push-Ups, Eskimo Pies, Blue Boys, and Nutty Buddies.

The Clownies turned as the panel truck came to a screeching halt at the edge of the playground. They regarded the vehicle uneasily as it sat there and idled for a long moment. Then the engine grew silent, as well as the loudspeaker on top of the cab.

"M-m-maybe we outta get the h-h-hell outta here," suggested Teardrops.

"Shut up and deal with it!" growled Gacy. He had other, more pressing matters on his mind. "It's gonna happen tonight, Scotty. You're gonna know me, boy. Inside and out."

Scott and Heather watched the ice cream truck, which simply sat there… silent, unmoving. Like the Clownies, they tried to see inside the cab, but the windows were so darkly tinted that they could discern absolutely nothing.

"Where is he?" asked the girl. "Why doesn't he do something?"

"Don't worry," assured Scott. "He will."

"Take care of the Bad Humor Man," Gacy called to his troops. "I'm going to finish up my business with little Scotty here." He took a Ruger .22 pistol from beneath his multi-colored raincoat and started toward the seesaws.

"You heard the boss," said a tall clown dressed like a scarecrow. He drew a machete from beneath his coat. "Let's end it for this bastard."

A couple of Clownies followed him, but the majority stayed put, afraid to advance on the ice cream truck.

Then, abruptly, it happened. The side panel of the truck swung downward and the driver walked down the ramp. The clowns stopped in their tracks and stared at the avenging angel that stood before them.

He was man of medium height and build, dressed from head to toe in a snow white uniform, including a cap with a shiny black bill. The outfit reminded Scott of an old Texaco magazine advertisement his dad had framed in his garage: cheerful gas station attendants from the forties or fifties. SERVICE WITH A SMILE the slogan had read.

The Popsicle Man had a black belt around his waist with a chrome coin changer at one hip and a leather pouch at the other. Upon his back were strapped a couple of shiny chrome tanks. Connected to the reservoirs was a black rubber hose with a long nozzle on the end… one that looked like a pressure washer from a self-service car wash.

But it was his face that was the most unnerving. Even from a distance it was peculiar. Eternally smiling and strangely shiny in the pale glow of the moon.

"I d-don't like this," muttered Teardrops. "Remember what he did to the Jolly Jackers? Turned 'em all into a b-bunch of freaking s-s-statues!"

"Stop your whining, bro!" snapped Scarecrow. He hefted the weight of the machete in his dark hand. "This dude ain't so tough. I'm gonna chop his damn arms off, then give him the ol' Fudgesicle up his lily-white ass."

Scarecrow started forward, but the others remained rooted to the spot. The sheer brilliance of their adversary was unsettling in itself. Not a speck of ash or soot tarnished his clean, white uniform.

"I got a big treat for you, ice cream boy."

"So do I," said the Popsicle Man. "Come and get it."

The clown raised his machete overhead and charged, releasing a war-cry as he went. The Popsicle Man waited calmly, patiently. Then when Scarecrow was no more than twelve feet away, he lifted his nozzle and fired.

A dense cloud of liquid Freon engulfed the man. Scarecrow advanced a couple more steps, then his muscles began to seize up and he stood frozen in his tracks. A wet gurgle echoed from his windpipe and his eyes twitched for a brief moment. Then he grew rigidly still and silent… and remained that way.

"S-s-s-shit!!" shrieked Teardrops. He turned to run. Most of the others did the same. Those who were stunned into immobility soon found themselves that way forever as the man in the crisp white uniform squeezed the trigger and swept the nozzle of his gun back and forth.

A broad wave of icy mist rolled toward them. Many of them were certain that they could outrun it, but they were mistaken. A gust of wind blew in from the east, pushing the Freon toward them swiftly, coating their flesh and invading their lungs. When it finally dissipated, the clowns stood anchored to the ground in pools of ice, unable to move or breath.

While the one-sided battle was taking place, Gacy stalked his own prey. "I'm coming to get you, Scotty!" he yelled, holding the Ruger in his right hand.

"I don't think so!" said Heather. She stood up, aimed the Glock, and squeezed off a single shot.

"Unngh!" grunted Gacy. He spun a couple of times, then fell to the ground on his back.

"Well," said Scott, surprised. "That was easy enough."

Heather frowned and looked at the gun in her hand. "Yeah… almost too easy."

"Kids!" called a voice from the far side of the playground. The Popsicle Man started across the scorched earth toward them. He accidentally bumped a frozen Clownie with the long barrel of his ice gun, breaking his arm off at the elbow.

Eagerly, the two went to meet him. Heather was faster than Scott and soon found herself circling the dead clown named Gacy. She paused for a moment to take a look at him close up. Beneath his white makeup she could make out his true face: middle-aged with enlarged pores and a flabby set of double chins. Lice and roaches scurried through the matted curls of his rainbow-colored wig.

She was about to move on, when Gacy's eyes suddenly popped open. 

"Missed me," he said.

As she turned to run, he swept her legs out from beneath her with a well-placed kick. The girl lost her breath as she landed hard on her back. The Glock spun from her hand, disappearing into the darkness.

Before Scott knew what was happening, Gacy was on his feet. With a speed uncharacteristic of his bulk, the Clownie was swiftly upon him. Scott tried to lash out with the Bowie, but Gacy laid the barrel of the Ruger across his wrist with a brittle crack! Scott gasped as a burning pain shot up his arm and the big knife fell from his tingling fingers. Then Gacy was behind him, one meaty arm around his throat and the other behind him, jabbing the muzzle of the .22 pistol against his spine. He stank of sweat and dried semen.

"Please… stop!" gasped the boy, doing exactly what he had warned Heather not to do.

Gacy laughed. "No, Scotty… the right word is start."

The Popsicle man walked toward them, still smiling cheerfully. Why is he so dadblamed happy? wondered the boy. Can't he see what's happening?

"Stay back!" warned Gacy. "You can have the girl. I don't give a damn about her. It's the boy I want."

The Popsicle Man took a couple more steps.

"Stop right there, asshole, or I'll blow this kid's backbone into splinters!"

The man in the white uniform stopped. He simply stood there, staring and smiling.

"Drop that thing you're holding… NOW! Then raise your hands where I can keep an eye on 'em!"

The Popsicle Man hesitated, then tossed the ice gun to the ground. 

Slowly, he raised his white-gloved hands, until the fingertips nearly brushed the shiny black bill of his cap.

Gacy chuckled. He leaned inward and ran a hot, wet tongue around the curve of Scott's ear, causing the twelve-year-old to shudder in revulsion. "I'm gonna split you apart, boy," he promised in a whisper.

Scott felt faint, like he was about to pass out. He stared at the Popsicle Man, eyes resentful. The man smiled at the clown and his hostage almost gleefully. What's the matter with him? he thought. Is he crazy like everybody says?

Then he noticed that the Popsicle Man wasn't simply standing there. The fingertips of his right hand grasped something at the brim of his cap, pulling a long, pale object hidden from within. Before either Scott or Gacy knew what was happening, his arm swung wide and his hand flashed forward.

Something spun past Scott's face and, abruptly, the Clownie's grasp on his throat loosened. He leapt away from Gacy as his captor began to shriek shrilly. As he fell to the ground, Scott looked up to see that a Popsicle stick – sharpened to a wicked point at one end – had impaled the clown's left eye.

The pain was so intense that Gacy dropped his gun. Screaming, he sank to his knees. The clown wailed loudly and his hands rose to the heavens, as if pleading to God to intervene. He didn't.

"Get back, son," the Popsicle Man told him. He bent down and retrieved his spray gun.

Scott got to his feet and joined Heather a few yards away. Together, the children watched as the Popsicle Man did his thing, firing his gun and engulfing Gacy in a cloud of liquid fluorine. The Clownie's screams choked off in mid-shriek and he grew silent. Soon, the icy cloud had faded and

Gacy's frozen form knelt before them like a statue of repentance, hands outstretched.

Quietly, Scott and Heather watched as the Popsicle Man went to work. He slung the spray nozzle across the tanks on his back, then took a pair of pliers from the pouch on his belt. He went to Gacy and meticulously began to break the man's fingers off close to the palm.

"What's your pleasure, kids?" he asked.

Heather licked her lips. "I'll take a thumb!" she replied eagerly.

"The middle finger for me," Scott told him.

The Popsicle Man took two sharpened sticks from the bill of his cap and impaled the frozen digits on the points. He then handed the icy treats to the children. In turn, they reached into their pockets and flipped him a quarter each.

"Much obliged," he said with a nod, then deposited the coins in the shiny, chrome receptacle on his belt.

Heather began to lick at the icy coating, relishing the ozone flavor of the Freon. Scott couldn't resist sticking his frozen finger in Gacy's unresponsive face. "Screw you, clown!"

It was at that moment that they were close enough to truly see the Popsicle Man's face for the first time. It was not a real face, but a mask, one of those transparent plastic masks that were once popular at Halloween. The ones with darkly painted eyebrows and lips, showing a hint of the wearer's true countenance underneath.

Whatever lay beneath the Popsicle Man's mask was terribly wrong. They could see jagged scars held together by screws and metal clamps, along with blistered lesions and patches of denuded bone. Parts of his face were raw and glistening, teaming with maggots.

"Thanks, Popsicle Man!" they said, neither one phased by the hidden horrors.

"Anytime, kids!" he said cheerfully. "Remember, keep to the shadows."

They both nodded, then walked to a swing set nearby. The sat and swung leisurely, enjoying their treats, anticipating the meaty prizes that lay within.

The Popsicle Man went about his business. He approached each frozen Clownie, snapping off their fingers and depositing them in an Igloo cooler he had retrieved from his truck. When he was done, he waved at Scott and Heather. Happily, they waved back and continued to swing.

Heather pushed at the blackened earth with her sneakers, sending herself skyward. She closed her eyes and felt the cool breeze rush through her hair. A scary night had turned into a good one. She would swing to the stars and cherish it. Beside her Scott laughed and did the same.

The ice cream truck roared into life and, with a toot of its horn, started away from the playground. They listened to the cheerful tune of the calliope as the Popsicle Man disappeared into the night, making his rounds.