Conflagration

XL

The entire structure they occupied was windowless and made of rotting wood. The morning sun went unseen outside as it warmed the outer walls. The only light source within was a lamp with no shade and the bare bulb cast a pale light in the center of the room and left the rest to shadows.

They were huddled around Boots like some sort of vaudeville audience. Hunks of equipment and machinery were spread across the floor. Tools that could be put to their use. Old batteries and jumper cables. Bolt cutters. A serrated Black & Decker saw.

Boots sat duct taped to a bucket seat, the kind you might find in the rear of a van. The stench of sweat rolling off him in waves. A crude bandage made of oilstained rags was wrapped around his mangled hand. Its opposite seeped a thick pinkish serum from where they had pulled out all five nails. A black bar towel had been tied around the upper half of his face where they had removed his eyes with the shortblade of one of their Swiss pocket knives. And lines of blood and viscous fluid streamed down over his cheeks like a heamolacriatic. Like the savior in Gethsemane.

He was shivering despite the heat.

Those that had survived the onslaught in the woods had fished him out of the creek and brought him to the garage. There were eight traffickers remaining out of the original twelve. Three had been torn to shreds with gunfire and the fourth had died when the TNT rigged to the base of the tree beside him detonated and cut him in half at the hip. One of those that escaped the valley was from the area and he had recognized Bryce when he stumbled into the clearing.

"Works for the Sheriff," he told the others. And soon the rest of them began to believe that somehow the Sheriff had caught wind of their plans and manufactured an ambush with the three of them serving as bait. It did not take long for them to convince themselves, and after the third fingernail had been ripped from Boots's hand he also began to believe.

Finally one of the men standing in the shadows came forward. He dropped to a knee in front of Boots and leaned in close to his face. In his right hand he held the pocket knife and he pressed it against the place where the bottom of his nose met the patch of skin above his upper lip. Boots blubbered. He had not said a coherent word since they had taken the second eye.

"The other two," the man said. "Where are they?"

And through his blubbering Boots answered them as honestly as he could.

"The Troop," he cried. "Please don't. Oh god please don't hurt me no more."

The man stood and nodded to the others who pulled a greasy tarp off the ground and walked it over to him. Then the man walked around the backside of the bench and cut his throat. Boots slumped forward, twitching and choking. Then he was still.

The man with the knife looked at the figure standing at the opposite end of the room.

"Call the others," he said. "I want them here now."

When they had finished wrapping the body two of them carried him back out into daylight and walked down towards the car...

...that was parked at the front of the driveway. Bryce and Crystal turned and observed the small shotgun house as it smoldered and emitted a stream of black smoke. A heavy smell of gasoline and burning insulation. It was the third house they'd torched within the hour and they had yet to encounter the Sheriff or his people. The sun had risen above the tree line. Bryce cut a line on the hood of the Mustang and after snorting it he looked at the light above and felt the passing of the day. When he looked back down Crystal was staring at him.

"Let's go see about that girl," he said. She nodded and hopped into the car and they drove...

...onto Flint Street and found a spot in front of the pharmacy. Sam could see the yellow police tape stretched across the pawn shop in the rearview mirror.

The town was deserted. Sounds of chaos and panic rolled down the hills towards it and echoed off of its worn facades. He could see various items scattered across the park. Unopened cases of water. A folding table with bits of food moldering on its surface.

In the blue light he crossed the street, looking in both directions. He found no one looking back. The front of the pawn shop had been blown inward but the items within had not been touched and without the police tape he wondered if one would even be able to tell that something had occurred.

He climbed into the empty frame and took two steps into the room. Glass crackling underfoot. After a moment he set eyes on what he was looking for. A scoped hunting rifle sat on the top shelf above the register. He climbed up on the display case beside it and took the gun along with two boxes of ammunition that were resting underneath.

When he stepped back into the street he heard the grinding sound of a propeller to the west. He turned and watched a small plane release a cloud of red powder onto the forest below. It expanded as it fell and then settled on the canopy. The black cloud from the fire beyond seared.

Sam got back in the truck.

"You can try that all you want," he said to himself as he pulled back onto the road. "But you ain't gunna put that out. I think you'd have to be God."

He turned back onto Flint Street heading east.

"That or somethin close."