The Stage

The massive doors in the stadium wall yawned like mouths into a cave, swallowing the performers in. Behind the main stage rose three stories of scaffolding—an uneasy marriage of permanent fixtures and temporary construction bolted together over years of reuse. A broad concrete stage dominated the far end, its wings reached by exposed metal staircases that allowed performers to enter and exit. Rickety plywood stalls with tattered curtains served as dressing rooms, offering just enough privacy to pretend at professionalism.  Gathered there were numerous performers—singers, firebreathers, jugglers, unicyclists, contortionists—a mishmash of what passed for amateur entertainment at the end of civilization as Miles and Sera had known it.

A buffet line had been set up beneath the scaffolding. Hot food, fresh bread, tea, even butter. Miles couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen butter.

“If I’d known they were feeding us,” he said between mouthfuls, “I wouldn’t have filled up on rabbit jerky.”

“They feed us every year,” said a tumbler nearby. He poked suspiciously at his plate. “Used to be better, though. Six years ago they really put on a spread.”

“Yeah?”

The man nodded.

“I think things are getting tight for them, same as the rest of the Plains.”

Each year, just before the cold set in and the virus variants emerged, Fort Anthem opened the stadium grounds and summoned the Plains inside—not into the city—never the city—but close enough to feel part of the Old World again. Amid music, fire, clowns, singers, and spectacle, it gave license for release before the season of sickness returned. At dusk, the lights around the stadium thudded to life, a ring of white brilliance that never varied year to year, proof to everyone that Fort Anthem stood. Order prevailed. Civilization endured.

Officially, it was morale stabilization. Sera suspected it was bread and circus—a way to gather the desperate and restless into one monitored place, identify them, count them, and remind them who controlled the gates, the food, the medicine, and the future. The risk was calculated, so security was absolute.

Still, stories arose after each festival. Normally disparate groups intertwined at the festival in ways they never could on the Plains. Stories were exchanged; A remedy that broke a child’s fever. A trader who uncovered a cache of pre-plague antibiotics. A prophet whose touch made the sick breathe easier again.  Gossip became gospel.  Fort Anthem offered authority.  The festival created myth. With each new season, people arrived primed to believe—not because Fort Anthem offered answers, but because the festivals fostered hope. By the time rumors of the Clown Who Heals arose on the Plains, people were already prepared to believe them. 

The organizers went through the groups, separating them and directing them into cues. Miles and Sera kept getting pushed back further in the cue until one of the coordinators was satisfied with the lineup. She handed everyone a card with their number on it. Miles looked at his card.

“How far down the line are we?“ Sera asked.

“Number 43,“ he said. “Three-quarters through the show.“

“Enough time to sit down and get some rest,” Sera added.

They found a place near the right wing of the stage that was not bustling with activity. Miles sat and began sorting through his pack. Sera drifted towards a gap between the plywood and peered out into the arena. It seemed full already, yet more were streaming in, filling the field and the bleachers and the risers. The crowds were singing, clapping, shouting slogans and prayers. As twilight merged into darkness electric lights began coming on in intervals. Many in the crowd murmured in appreciation and a bit of wonder at a forgotten technology. A buzzing sound filled the air as, with a heavy clunking of closing circuits, the stadium lights flared on. The crowd cheered and their chanting increased.

From backstage Sera could sense the rising fever of expectation. Starting from somewhere in the middle of the arena, and spreading like ripples, a chant became dominant.

“Send in the clown! Send in the clown!“

Sera saw the guards standing between the crowd and the stage grow uneasy. Team leaders walked the line, talking into their headsets. Hands gripped riot batons anxiously. Fingers grazed the weapons at their belts. The order of Fort Anthem was confronting the myth of the Plains. Fort Anthem was fidgeting.

Over the heads of the crowd Sera could see a myriad of swirling red dots in the sky, darting around like insects but, with purpose. She calculated there must be fifty drones.

A ring of security guards moved on to the stage. Amidst them was a tall, stately, silver haired man. His demeanor was calm, but tense—someone who expects the unexpected. The guards flanked either side as he stepped to the microphone, giving it a tap with his fingers and listening to the thumps through the arena speakers. The clamor calmed and attention focused on the stage.

“Is this thing on?“ The man asked rhetorically, his voice booming over the crowd. Video screens on either side of the stage flickered to life, displaying his smooth patrician features and dazzling white teeth.  The crowd swelled with shouts and applause.

“Good evening! I’m Mayor Davidson and I want to welcome all of you to Fort Anthem and the annual season festival and show!” The mayor spread his arms wide to receive the audience’s acclaim. The audience roared back with enthusiasm. The mayor stood for a moment—soaking in the spirit and energy of the crowd. 

“I want to thank all of you for coming. We in Fort Anthem know what a struggle it is for all of you, and the effort and sacrifice it takes to come here.” The face on the Jumbotron screens became somber, almost reflective.  “But as each season arrives, it is important we all come together, to remember what we are striving for and what we will pass on to our children.“

The audience applause was thundering, but seemed performative to Sera.

“And we want everyone who comes in from the Plains to know that in Fort Anthem, you have not been forgotten!”

Roar of applause.

“And that every day, even now, the best and the brightest of our society work on treatments for the sick, relief for the suffering, and most of all— a cure for the Petersburg virus!“ The mayor defiantly thrust his fist into the air. 

The crowd applauded and cheered, but not with the same enthusiasm.

“Working together,” the mayor continued.  “Keeping order, and understanding our roles in this challenging environment is important. Especially after so much tragedy and loss. Fort Anthem is not immune to the privation and suffering the season brings. But we will keep fighting to protect, defend, and preserve our great culture and order. And one day, I think one day soon… we’re gonna beat that son of a bitch Pete!“ 

The mayor’s arms shot out to absorb the crowd’s stupendous roar. He stood there, soaking it in, a smile back on his face.

From somewhere near the center of the arena, the chant arose again… 

“Send in the clown! Send in the clown!”  

It spread across the audience like a thundercloud. The mayor’s smile slipped, but his voice resonated with a politician’s enthusiasm.

“Yes, yes! Oh yes, we will have clowns! And bands, and magic, and all sorts of entertainment. Because the people of the Plains deserve the best Fort Anthem has to offer!“ He raised his arms again, but applause was buffeted by the chant rising over the entire arena. 

“Send in the clown! Send in the clown!“

Mayer Davidson covered the mic with his hand and spoke to one of the guards on his left, his fluffy white eyebrows pinched together.

“Let’s get things started with our first performance of the evening.” He said with a hollow enthusiasm. “Our first performers have come all the way from Rock River to be here. Many of you have seen them perform, and they have been regulars here for four years. Please give a rousing Fort Anthem welcome to the Rock River Players!”  

Mayor Davidson abruptly turned and walked off the stage.

The crowd settled down, cheering as the band members came on stage and took their places. Sera had heard their mournful folk music enough in the camps and turned away, making her way back to where Miles was sitting down and resting.

“How are you feeling?“ Sera asked.

“Better now that I’ve had a big meal,” Miles answered, stretching out his legs. “As last meals go, that one wasn’t bad.“

Sera sat down on the ground next to him. Beneath the stairs and behind the stage, they had as much privacy as they were going to get. 

Sera laid her hand on Miles‘s arm.  “It’s not coming to that. We have a plan. Do your show, get them laughing.  Exit—stage right.”  She leaned forward so she could look him in the face. “And you exit before you feel ill, right? That’s understood. Before you feel weak.”

“Yeah,” Miles said distractedly. “Leave them laughing. That’s the Golden Rule of Comedy.”

“So, show and go.  I’ll be just off stage.  I’ll have everything ready. When you’ve had enough, get off stage.“

“What if there’s an encore?“ Miles asked, making a grand flourish with his hands.

“You leave them wanting more. That’s a golden rule, too.“

They fell silent as the crowd burst into applause and the Rock River Band took their bows.  Feet banged on the aluminum stairs over their head as the next act proceeded onto the stage.

Miles positioned his pack between his legs and rooted through the contents. “Time to get in character,” he said..

As he pulled out the costume—yellow and green striped suit, white skull cap with tired red sprouts—and began dabbing on his facepaint, Sera watched the familiar erasure take place. On the Plains, Miles could be anyone. In grease paint, he became unmistakable. The man vanished. The clown arrived.

Sera had heard the whispers in other camps starting the previous summer.  A clown drifts through.  Earns beans and bread by telling satirical jokes and performing farcical songs.  A ‘mune who performs for dying children, then moves on.

And the children don’t die.  The sick get better.

Sera worked camps too long to believe that.  Coincidence. Mild strains. Natural recovery. Pete going dormant.  Those she could understand.

She had first seen him seven months earlier, the end of a hard season with Pete.  Balloons, dented horn, battered ukulele, jokes sharp enough to make the adults wince and the kids laugh. Some children were too weak to do more than watch. 

Two days later, several of the weakest were better.

She hadn’t followed him out of Beaver Ruin because of hope. She wanted facts. She found him preparing to leave, folding his costume into his pack.

“You’re the one they’re talking about.  The one they’re looking for,” she spoke evenly, eyeing him closely for something distinctive and failing to find it.

“I’m nobody.  I’m a tired man who makes jokes and sings silly songs.”

“And makes people better.”

Miles closed his pack and stared at her.  “What do you want?”

“I want to understand,” she said, and shouldered her own bag.

They moved together after that—camp to camp, road to road—ghosts on the Plains. 

“Last… The ukulele. Got it?”  Miles was looking at her intensely. Sera came back to the moment and looked down into the pack Miles stood over.

“Yes, but I thought we weren’t going to do the ukulele?”

Miles shook his head, rubbing white grease paint around the seam of the bald wig with a sponge.

“The ukulele is the climax. It’s the signature for the show. It’s where the magic happens.“

“But the ukulele… Marlon said…“ Sera began. Miles waved his makeup stained hand.

“Forget Marlon. If these blue suits know the difference between a ukulele and a tuba, I’ll eat my hat. Which, by the way, is the fourth prop. Remember that, please.“

“I’ll remember,“ Sera said, still in thought.

“Pacing is everything, and the order of the props is crucial. Sorry, I’ve never had an assistant. I just wanna make sure…“ Miles trailed off. Sera‘s eyes snapped back to his, questioningly. Miles shrugged, half embarrassed. “I wanna make sure everything goes right. It’s a big crowd, the expectations are high.“

As fall waned on the Plains, the rumors became mythic.  People didn’t just get better.  They didn’t get sick with Pete again, it said.

“You know the festival at Fort Anthem?  I think we should go,” Miles said.  He was resting under a tree by a creek while Sera coaxed a fire.

She stayed silent for a moment.  “You mean, to perform?”

“Of course.”

“That’s thousands of people.”

Every performance left him weakened.  Sometimes for a day.  Sometimes for a week.  The only factor Sera could see was the size of the crowd.  Smaller groups were quicker to recover from.  But he never seemed to fully come back.  It was as if every performance was a receding tide, taking more of Miles out each time, returning less.

Age, exhaustion, life on the road, Sera reasoned.

Miles sat up, looking at her.  “We’re picking around the edges here, Sera.  It’s chipping me away, bit by bit.  We don’t know if it’s just happenstance, these small clinics.  But an audience like that—ten thousand people?  Imagine a hard winter, and none of them got Pete?”

Sera slowly shook her head and stared at the ground between her feet.

“You can’t wish the whole world healed, Miles,” she said quietly.

“You still don’t believe what you see.”

“I can’t explain it.  That’s not the same thing.”

Backstage was a flurry of activity and motion. Acts were gathering their props, reviewing routines, and idling nervously. A backstage manager cued the next performance. There were few gaps between sets yet even in the short time it took to transition everyone could sense a restlessness in the audience. With each song or dance or tumbling routine the crowd showed a restrained patience. But every time the clowns took the stage there was a rise in anticipation. Some of the acts were very good – Miles had to admit that. Slapstick and comical routines from a bygone age evoked some laughter and amused groans. Some did not hold the attention of the audience very long, which began singing and chanting in waves around the stadium.

From under the stairs Miles looked out at the crowd nervously. He squeezed the red foam-rubber nose, rolling it between his fingers. The cults were gathered around their symbols and slogans, painted on old bed sheets, held up with wooden poles. With each performance they displaced the audience in front of them, moving closer towards the stage.  By the time Miles took the stage they would be close enough to rush it if they wished.

“It’s going to be all right,“ said Sera. “They are moving acts on and off the stage pretty smoothly. Security does not seem to be paying much attention to them.”

“Including the clowns?”  Miles asked.

“They notice them a little more,” Sera admitted.

“Thirty-eight! Performers thirty-eight, on stage! Now!“ The manager yelled, gesturing vigorously with his hands.

The stairs above them banged and rattled as a band of troubadours took the stage.  At the announcement of their name, a small, localized roar went up among their regional fans.

A patrolling security guard stopped and peered in at them, and Miles. He stepped closer, looking Miles over carefully.

“What are you doing down here?” The guard asked in an interrogating voice.

“Staging, getting into character,” Sera supplied.

“What’s your cue?” The guard demanded.

“Number forty-three,” Sera answered, holding up the card they had been given.

The guard glanced at it and put his walkie-talkie to his mouth, eyes fixed on Miles. He spoke, then held it up to his ear.  A metallic voice answered in cipher. The guard put the walkie-talkie back on his belt, his eyes never detaching from Miles.  He made the most imperceptible of nods and backed away a little, performing the worst act of nonchalance Sera had ever seen.

Sera looked at Miles, who made a small nod.  “They are running out of clowns to suspect,” he said.

“Maybe we won’t have time for the ukulele,” Sara suggested.  Miles smiled tightly.

Performers 39 and 40 took the stage.  The crowd alternately cheered, booed, laughed, and chanted.  Another security guard drifted over to join the one watching Miles and Sera.

Sera bit her lip.  “If you want to pull out… we can leave.  Let’s get out of here, back to the Plains.  Hold up, rest and really recover.  Get your strength back—”

“It’s not coming back,” Miles said quietly.  “I wish there was more time, but that’s not how it is.”  He looked up at Sera.  “If it’s not tonight—if it’s not for this—it won’t have been worth it.”

Sera stiffened and looked hard at Miles.  “You’re not holding back tonight.  You’re going to try and cure all of them.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll die.”

“That’s going to happen anyway.”  He laid his hand over hers.  “I’m sorry.  I know you’ve lost a lot—”

She jerked her hand away and sat back, rigid.  “Don’t tell me what I’ve lost!  You’re being selfish.  You’re buying into your own bullshit myth!  They have doctors here, Miles.  Scientists and labs.  They could help you!”

“You still believe that?”  Miles nodded to the security guards.  “They want to help?”

Sera stared at him, unable to answer.

“Number 43,” the backstage manager hissed to the assembled performers below.  “Que up!”  

Sera grabbed the pack and stood up.  She and Miles made their way up the stairs.  The manager positioned them behind the curtain—stage right.

Miles stopped and looked at Sera with an expression approaching tenderness. “Thank you,” he said to her quietly.

“For what?“ asked Sera.

He gestured behind him at the stage and the audience with a wide sweep of his hand. “This,“ he said. “Getting us here. Giving me the chance to do this— to matter.“

Looking over the crowd he said, “The funny thing is—I’m finally in a world where the best thing I can be is ridiculous.”

Sera saw the finality in his face.  The entire journey had come to this.  Miles might affect thousands of people, and Sera would never understand how.  She would spend the rest of her life wondering.  She could only hope—

She closed her eyes and felt tears run down her face as the thought rushed over her.

She could only hope.

“Where’s the horn?” she heard Miles ask.

Her eyes snapped open and looked at the open pack.

“It was there—I saw it.”  She dug through the props.  The magician on stage was setting up her final illusion.

“Sera, I need—”

“I’ll find it!” she cried, heading for the stairs.  “Don’t start yet—give me a second.”

Miles called after her.  “The show must—”

“I know!”

Sera darted down the stairs, nearly tumbling.  She ran to the spot they had rested and looked around.

There.  The dented horn with the black bulb lay next to her jacket.  She snatched it up and spun towards the stairs.

When she turned she saw Mayor Davidson, standing with the security guard who had been watching them.  He was nodding gravely as the guard spoke to him.  Another guard nudged the mayor and gestured towards Sera.  They all fixed their eyes on her.

Sera glanced up the stairs to the stage.  From here she could not see Miles standing in the wings.  She could hear the voice of the magician, preparing the great reveal.

“I wave my magic wand…”

Sera took a step towards the mayor.

“I count down from 10…”

She stepped closer.  

“Nine… Eight…”

One of the guards moved to block her.

“Seven… Six…”

Mayor Davidson put his arm out to stop him.

“Five… Four…”

“Hello, my dear,”  Mayor Davidson said in a voice soft and comfortable.

“Three…Two…”

“Sir,” Sera said.

“One… Presto!”

“I need to tell you something.”

“Really?”  The mayor’s eyes flicked upwards, toward the stage.  “And what is that, my dear?”

“Do it now,” she thought.

Sera fidgeted, the horn clutched to her stomach.  Mayor Davidson tilted his head a fraction.

“You are here with a performer, aren’t you?  A… clown… perhaps?”

“Save him from himself, before it’s too late.”

She swallowed hard, but didn’t speak.

“Is there something I can help with?”  Mayor Davidson’s eyes stared at her like a spotlight.  She felt naked and trapped.

Sensing her reluctance, the mayor affected a pleasant smile, white teeth glinting in the dim backstage lights.  He stepped forward, his hand extended, palm up.

“We can be very helpful, if you have something to tell me.”

Sera thought about that.  “Scientists and labs and people that would help Miles.”

“And here in Fort Anthem, we can be very grateful, too.”

“A woman could get rich.”

“There could be a place for you…” The mayor’s eyes darted up again, towards the stage.  “And your friend.  A place in Fort Anthem.”

Sera thought about that, too.  Electricity.  Clean water.  Food stores.  Order.

Warehouses filled with comatose ‘munes.

Sera froze in place.  She stared into Mayor Davidson’s eyes.  She took a step backwards.

“I wanted to tell you… thank you.  Thank you for the festival.”

The mayor’s brows knitted together and his smile vanished.  “Yes, of course, but—”

“I have to go,” Sera spun around and moved quickly towards the stairs.

“My dear—wait!”

Her boots pounded on the aluminum steps in rapid staccato as she hurried up to the stage.  She risked a glance over her shoulder.  The mayor and the guards had not moved.  But they kept their eyes locked on her.

The magician was taking her bows.

Miles stood in the wings.

“I’m sorry!” she gasped as she thrust the horn at him.  “I’m so, so, sorry!”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said as he took the horn, his fingers grazing over hers.  “I knew I could depend on you.”

“And now,” intoned the announcer.  “From parts unknown, a traveler of the wastelands, a bringer of song and laughter.  Please welcome… The Clown of the Plains!”

Sera looked at Miles.

“You like it?” he asked with a lopsided grin.  “I just came up with it.”

Sera smiled and nodded.

Miles stepped into the lights.  He walked to the microphone, gripped the stand, and moved it aside.  

For a long held breath he did nothing.

The chant that had rolled through the stadium—”Send in the clown!”—fractured and softened. Ten thousand people leaned forward as one organism. Even the drones seemed to hover in a suspended ring above the field.

Miles dipped his head, slow and deliberate, and gave the horn a single mournful bleat.

The crowd laughed—relieved, grateful.

He began without props, telling the story in pantomime first: a man scavenging in the ruins, finding treasure in trash, losing it to bandits, mourning it theatrically, then scavenging again with stubborn absurdity. The gestures were broad enough for the screens, intimate enough for the front rows. Finding a kitten in the refuse heap, nurturing it, strangling it, weeping over it, cooking it. The adults roared; the children shrieked; the weak lifted their heads.

Each vignette grew sharper. Hope found and stolen. Love declared and misplaced. Resources hoarded and burned. Faith invested, betrayed, abandoned. Every time he returned to the wings for another prop—fabric flowers, hat, juggling pins—Sera saw the cost in his labored breathing and staggering steps.

“Slow down,” she whispered when he came for the fabric floral bouquet.

He didn’t answer.

The laughter was different from the other performances. It wasn’t campfire laughter. It wasn’t small. It was tidal. It moved from laughter to something else.  Something profound.

The cultists, laughing and chanting and waving their banners, surged forward.

Security tightened its formation.

Sera could see the energy draining from Miles as he performed. She read it in his eyes when he came for another prop.

He did not take the hat.

He reached for the ukulele.

“After tonight,” he said quietly, “don’t stay here.  And don’t use my name.”

“What do you mean?” Sera asked.

“Take the myth back to the Plains.  Let them have hope.”

Sera stared into his worn face and nodded slowly.  “I understand.”

He smiled and walked back onto the stage.

The crowd saw the ukulele and erupted.

He plucked once. Twice.  The microphone carried the notes clearly

The melody was simple, almost childlike. The opening bars of One Life, One Love. It carried thin at first, then fuller as the sound system caught it and threw it back across the arena. Miles rocked back and forth with staggering steps.  The crowd recognized it in waves. The first rows began to sing. Then the middle. Then the stands. The entire arena was soon swaying and singing.

Ten thousand cracked, tired voices joined in a growing, shaking chorus.

Sera was grabbed from behind.  Guards pinned her arms at her sides. Mayor Davidson pushed past her and stood at the edge of the stage, looking intently at Miles.  He made a gesture for security to block the stage exits.

“No!” Sera shrieked, struggling and kicking.  “No!  Let him finish!  You have to let him finish!”

The mayor shot her a look, then pointed at Miles and yelled something.

At that moment, the guardrails collapsed as the cultists surged forward, clambering towards the stage.

Security lines broke formation.

Miles didn’t stop. He only played.

He looked out over them—over the cultists with their banners, the officials with their headsets, the children on shoulders, the coughing elders, the drones circling like angry hornets.  He glanced back at Sera, seeing her flailing in the guards’ grip.

He felt it leaving him now.

Not draining.

Flowing, like a tide.

Taking him out with it.

Miles stopped playing.

The crowd carried on without him.

He raised his arms. The ukulele clattered to the stage.

He opened his hands—palms out—not in resistance, but in presentation.  In delivery.

The sound rushed upward.

For a suspended second he remained upright in the blaze of light and noise.

As the crowd roared its gratitude, as the cultists and security and the desperate battled to reach the stage, Miles Danner pitched forward.

Sera’s scream was lost in the roar.

She tore loose from the guards and rushed to where Miles lay, unmoving.  She fell to her knees beside him, pushing away a guard who had approached.

“I’m a nurse!” she yelled.

She ran her hands over Miles, knowing what she would find.  Knowing this is what he’d always planned.  To stand on a stage before a cheering crowd and give all of himself away.

“Is he?…”  Mayor Davidson crouched beside her.  He didn’t finish his question.

Sera looked up and around her.  Security guards and other staff were boiling out into the crowd, pushing people back and trying to restore order.  The mayor shouted into the microphone.

The cacophony rebounded through the arena and came back amplified. People were crying openly. Others were shouting that they could breathe easier. Someone lifted a child above the crowd, sobbing that their fever had broken.  Others were thrusting fists in the air.  A new chant was rising.

“Long live the Clown!  Long live the Clown!  Long live the Clown!”

Sera was shoved aside as medical staff surrounded Miles’ body.  She remained there, on her hands and knees, watching technicians with white shirts and gloved hands use paddles and machines.  She knew they would not restore him.  They could not put back what he had let go.

Sera crawled off the stage and down the stairs.  She stumbled past the flow of people making their way towards the stage.  She staggered out of the arena and into the chill night air.  It had taken on a sharp bite, away from the press of bodies and lights.

The season would be here soon.

She made her way past the stalls and fences, joining a thin trickle of people flowing out of Fort Anthem.

She would be back on the Plains by dawn.