No Laughing Matter

20251003

Prompt from Bradley Ramsey's "First Indulgence" event.

Why did it have to be clowns? Of all the curses to sweep the world… clowns.
Shaun glared through the chain-link fence across the field. Alert for the merest flash of colourful fabric or a distant tinkle of bells.
Nothing… for now. They might be safe.
Could clowns even climb a fence this tall? Maybe some of the acrobat ones. But you’d hope that if cities were going to set up “quarantine zones” and lock refugees in for weeks, they’d make the pens clown-proof.
If the clowns couldn’t get through the fence… and they might not bother trying if they could see their “audience”… Shaun measured out the space in paces. Thirty-four. Not sure how many metres that was, but those flower-spritzers shouldn’t be able to shoot that far… but droplets on the wind…
He swore under his breath.
Had anybody figured out how the curse propagated? While horribly infectious it didn’t seem to affect people who just saw the clowns, so presumably worked like a sickness. That was the theory he’d been working with and it’d gotten the group this far. Wear masks, goggles, and gloves, change clothes frequently and leave the “soiled” ones behind, avoid contact with bodies of water - including puddles! He had to remind people of that one a lot…
But once they got here, finally able to apply for safety, all their anti-infection measures had been forbidden. So the unseen observers peering through the cameras could ‘watch for symptoms’.
Shaun resumed pacing the outside fence. Glaring. Willing the monsters to stay away.
Overhead the speaker for their cell crackled to life. Perhaps the tinny distortion concealed the person’s emotion, or perhaps they were even more numb than Shaun.
Either way, hearing “Traces of the curse have been found in your sector” robbed Shaun of breath and sent him sprawling to the packed mud.
“Who? Who??” He demanded of the speaker, the sky, the twisted universe which treated life like a joke.
They continued as if they couldn’t hear him. Maybe they couldn’t. “The cursed must be terminated before symptoms progress and the individual becomes capable of propagation. If that occurs, the segment will be terminated for safety.”
Terminated. For safety.
Shaun squeezed his eyes tight shut and took slow, deep breaths. Everyone was going to be looking to him. After all, he’d taken charge getting them here. He’d come up with those protection methods and insisted everyone follow them.
And apparently all he’d achieved was wasting everyone’s time.
Now what?
When Shaun hauled himself upright the group’s sprawling huddle was fractured into families and individuals, eyeing others with suspicion. It was painful to see. And he knew whatever followed would be far worse.
What to do. Had to keep things calm. Organised. If panic broke, not only would they not figure anything out, people would get hurt.
Terminated.
Shaun shuddered.
Peering up at the cameras, he called “What… what symptoms should we be looking for? You have to know by now, right?”
Every head turned to the speaker.
Silence.
Every head turned back to Shaun.
He felt like he had nothing to offer. But responsibility demanded he come up with something.
So he cleared his throat and said “Has, um, has anyone been…”
He paused, fumbling for words, and young Jill sardonically supplied “Feeling funny?”
The shocked laughs defused tension - and spawned far more, as people drew away from their neighbours’ merriment, suspicion sharpening.
Jill received the most stares. Was that warranted? Dark humour was a natural reaction to a situation like this, wasn’t it? Granted, she was young… but teens could be worse for that stuff than adults, so…
He was doing it. Picking apart people’s behaviour, desperately trying to find someone “off”. It’d already started.
Shaun could taste blood from his gnawed lip.
It was that slippery survival math. One person dies, or everyone dies? Easy choice, right? A painful choice, a bad choice, but an easy choice.
Then it happened again. And again. And again.
He’d been trying to avoid it. Insisted that if everyone just followed the rules, they didn’t have to trade anyone.
And he’d failed. Here they were.
If the clown lives, everyone dies. But we don’t know who they are - they probably don’t know who they are. And once their skin starts turning white and the nose goes it’s too late. For all of us.
What to do, what to do, what to do…
“What comes first?” Neville wondered aloud. “Hair falling out? Eyes losing colour?”
“Maybe they get obsessive and can’t sit still.”
It took Shaun a moment to realise Carrie was glaring at him. He swallowed hard, choking back the hurt and panic which jumped to his lips. She was lashing out, and likely trying to deflect attention from Jill. But he couldn’t brush it off. Had to stop people picking out others at random.
What to do?!
“Don’t be daft, mum.” Jill was quicker on the draw than Shaun. “The rules made sense. And of course he’s stressed-”
“They made sense, sure, but they didn’t work.” Carrie argued. “We know that, because someone’s infected. And who had the most faith in those false rules?”
The situation was crumbling in front of his eyes and his throat wasn’t working. Multiple people were talking at once now, voices rising and growing higher pitched, accusations flowing.
Movement overhead. The wall which had been constructed around the city was now filling with soldiers in warded hazmat suits. Guns held ready.
Shaun coughed and tried to force out a plea for calm - and to his horror it came out a squeak. Almost like… a honk??
Was that a sign that…? No, it was nerves. But what if it wasn’t???
What about Carrie’s rosy cheeks, was that suspicious? Should he be worrying about the fact Neville was laughing through tears in the corner?
The soldiers waited overhead. Silently demanding an answer. Any answer.
But it’d better be correct…

Prompt was “You’re trapped in a quarantine zone with other people. One of you is infected with something. A disembodied voice tells you that if you don’t find out who it is before they turn, you will all die…”