Servant of the Flame, Part Two

We pull into the compound after the usual security check bullshit. Those boys at the gate are such a pain in the ass, but they do a good job. Tight security means you hire assholes and train them to be thorough. They have bomb sniffing dogs, and mirrors to check the wheel wells, and even a set of sensors that supposed to be able to see people hiding in your trunk. They always make us get out and dance around while they wave those goddamn sticks all over us. They check the prisoner too, though he's too fucked up to stand. They just drag him out into the dirt and pat him down. I warned that prick not to try anything, but guys like him never learn.

So now we're pulling into the motor pool. Some tech weenies swoop in to tune up the car. Some security goons swoop in to pick up the prisoner. My partner and I have a few minutes before the drop, so we go hit the cafeteria.

One thing they know how to do here is coffee. Because of all the circuitous logistics required to keep this place off the grid, we sometimes get our supplies from strange places. Last month they ran out of desserts and all they had were boxes of these weird mexican candies that tasted like salty hot sauce. But the coffee is amazing. One of the supply guys has a special hookup in Venezuela. We get this shit right off the mountains. It's the sort of thing God would drink if he ever came down to Earth. Or at least, if he ever found out about this place.

My partner picks up a whole tray of shit. He says he's starving, and I don't say anything. He brings his food back to the table and I just sip my coffee whole he tries to eat some stroganoff or whatever. He looks hungry, but all he can do is poke at that food. He stirs up the green beans. He prods the barley mash. It smells tasty but I know he won't be able to eat anything.

It's that noise. It's here now too. You hate it when you hear it, but when you leave the compound, you start to miss it. There's something comforting about getting your head rattled, like you don't have to think too hard. The noise keeps you up at night, and it often steals your appetite. A lot of people get really skinny here. They could turn this place into a fat camp, sell tickets, make a fortune. Not like they need money. Not like they don't own half the goddamn country already.

So my partner's pretending like he can still eat while I'm fully enjoying my coffee. I've never had a problem finishing a cup of this stuff. You could burning off my dick with a hot poker and I'd still be smiling and sipping this coffee. Our phones go off at the same time. Everything's ready upstairs. We leave our shit on the table and head up.

Our grim, tatooed buddy is wide awake now and screaming. The goons put him in a cage in the center of the big ritual room. They could just hit the button and make this happen, but the boys upstairs like all the pomp and circumstance of tradition. They've been killing people in here for around fifty years. You can't just throw that kind of history out the window.

There's a guy in a robe reading some grim sounding shit in Latin. I always find that funny. He's not even a priest or anything. Who's idea was it to recite shit in Latin? This whole company's probably sixty years old at the most. It's all a farce.

So there's the robe guy, two of those secuirty goons with long, cattle-prod things, a dude behind a console, the director, and me and my partner. We're all standing around in this big ass room with a reinforced cage bolted to the floor in the center where this piece of shit murderer is screaming his head off, making all kinds of threats. No one's worried about any of that shit. Once he sees the blue fire, it'll all be over.

The robe guy finishes and closes his book. The director nods to the console guy. The prisoner shuts up for a second to piss his pants. The console guy flips a switch and the bottom of the cage slides open.

The ritual room is situated directly over the engine. The cage shaft used to be part of a chimney the built originally. When they discovered that the blue fire didn't make any smoke, they bricked it up. When they discovered that they needed a way to drop bodies into the engine, they unbricked it and built this cage.

Now the trap door doesn't move all that quick, so the prisoner is now holding on to the bars of the cage like a monkey. He seems like a pretty strong guy, so he can probably hang there awhile. That's why those goons have the prods, in case the sacrifice just hangs in there like that fucking cat in the poster.

The murderer takes one look down, they always do, and it's over. The goons won't need the prods. There's a look that comes over the prisoner's face. It's tough to describe, but it's like a baby. Like suddenly this evil fucking fuck is suddenly turned into a happy, curious baby. He lets go of the bars and drops into the heart of the blue flame. The fire does something to a person's brain if he looks right into it. I don't know what it is and I don't want to know. I have to hear the noise it makes all day and night, and that's enough for me.

So the prisoner is gone and the console guy hits another switch. As the trap door closes, that rumbling sound is muted again and I realize I've been grinding my teeth. The director is already out the door. The goons are right behind him. My partner is heading to the bar to get fucked up. He invites me along but I decline. I can't stand to look at him right now. I can't stand fucking anything.

I go back to my goddamn bunk and push my pillow up against my ears so hard. I curl up in the corner and try not to think about that peaceful baby face and how much I'd like to be able to make it.