The Things We Bury - Part 1: In Anticipation of the End of the World [Completed]

Chapter 7: The Ring of Fire (Part 1 of 8)

There was a Johnny Cash song playing on the radio. Only the boom-chicka-boom rhythm could be heard over the cicada hum of the after-church crowd filling the diner.

The waitress dropped a hefty plate on the table and was gone before she could be seen. The food filled the air with the aroma of Sunday: cured pork, fried potatoes, and the yeasty smell of buttermilk pancakes. Going out for breakfast on Sunday was the only indulgence that Horus still allowed himself.

It was more than just a meal, it was a ritual.

As a boy, his parents took the brood out after the early morning sermon. The whole family would cram themselves into a booth at the same archaic diner every week. Horus always claiming one of the honored spots pressed against the wall with full access to the mini-jukebox. Across from him his sister, Bella, seized the other seat; their age gave them privilege over the other two children, who were doomed to be crammed in the middle. Horus's mother and father sat on the ends, anchoring them all in and preventing their exuberance and mischief from spilling out and bothering the other dinners.

Horus had kept up the tradition long after he had become an adult and he had a family of his own. And he still did it, long after his family had ruptured and split apart. It was a small constant in his life-a ceremony that had meant more than going to church ever did. Faith had failed over time. Bacon and coffee endured.

He turned the newspaper over to a fresh page, folding the fragile gray sheets into a tight crease. The headline at the top read: Is This the Zombie Apocalypse? It was another article about a Miami man who attacked someone and ate his face. It was accompanied by other strange, recent reports of crimes involving cannibalism from California, New Jersey, and Baltimore.

Horus skimmed it. Just another fear piece intended to play on deep-seated human phobias to sell papers. Sloppy reporting linking completely unrelated events — events with rational explanations — to make a case for a popular social meme. Just another invented horror that was somehow more palatable to people than the real atrocities occurring every day.

Horus dug into the food. The sausages had a faint odor of maple syrup. The egg yolks broke like liquid sunshine. The paper sat forgotten for a few minutes of heavenly, grease fuelled bliss.

An eruption of applause from a large group made him glance away from his plate. A collection of gray-haired white people — men in suits, women in conservative dresses — were celebrating something. Everyone in the restaurant looked their way as one couple sat back down, broad grins on their faces. High on the wall behind them, a clock ticked past eleven.

He was supposed to be at the Music Box for one. Plenty of time to get there. Horus scratched his beard and frowned. He wasn't looking forward to it. There was a counseling session with Amy scheduled.

She had been put in the wolf room last night. She wouldn't be in a good mood today.

Yesterday, the atmosphere in the bunker had been off, bored and business-like. Even R.J. had a marked lack of enthusiasm. This would only be the second full moon since the laboratory opened, so there should have been more of an air of anticipation. But it seemed that the staff was already beginning to adapt to the cycle. The transformation only occurred when the moon was at complete fullness, or nearly complete. At a reported ninety-six percent visibility, no one had expected her to change yet. She was only put in the pen as a precaution.

Amy disliked the bedroom. In their sessions, she never failed to let Horus know that she considered it nothing less than a prison. But the wolf room was infinitely worse.

When they met, she would be sullen and angry for having been in the dungeon-like enclosure. If Horus could even lure her to the window, she would probably just sit there glaring at him as though it was all his fault.