Being afraid of clowns seems like something of a trendy phobia these days. I’m afraid of them because I once saw an appallingly skinny man dressed as an evil clown throw his head back and swallow a live mouse.
They wandered the wasteland through ruined counties and barren states asking the same question again and again. “We prayed, we were righteous and God was on our side so how did we lose the war?”
“We can’t go back down, the wolves are waiting there!” she cried.
“Well that other thing is waiting up there!” he spat back.
They had been hearing sounds outside the caravan for over an hour: whispers; muffled footsteps; a snort; metallic scraping; and now the door handle was moving. “Why the hell did I let you talk me into stopping here,” she hissed, “I told you that Free Overnight Parking sign looked dodgy.”
He shook free from the clutches of a hellish dream – suffocation, confined in the darkness of a slime-soaked tunnel. Reality was worse – the silken walls of a coffin and six feet of moist, stony soil.