away.
Kyle is not alone, and his company is not a decapitated burning thing. I make my way over, all but blinded by the light from the fire. It isn't until I'm right there next to Kyle that I see it's Cadaver who's with him. His eyes are narrowed against the glare, but still there's an odd look on his hollow face, almost like reverence.
"Cadaver, what happened?"
Kyle looks like a ghost, his eyes filled with fire. "He says Cobb did it. Just after we left, he went crazy and torched the place."
Cadaver nods, but adds nothing. I notice his little microphone is absent, which explains his silence. Just like Brody must have thought when the old man hunkered down next to him, Cadaver looks like death. More so now than ever before, the orange-red light only adding deeper shadow beneath the sharp outcroppings of his cheekbones.
"Where is everyone?" I ask, afraid of the answer, because I've surveyed the area more than once on my way up here and I'm surveying it now again, and I don't see anybody here but us, and that feels to me like a brand new nightmare fresh from the devil's womb, waiting to be christened by the ignorant.
Kyle looks at me, and the flames shimmer in his eyes. "Gone," he tells me. "Cadaver says they're all gone. All but Brody."
"And where's he?"
Cadaver nods in the direction of the burning building, off into the shadows the fire is weaving to the side of it. I don't see Brody, but I trust that he's there.
"Jesus." I put my hands to my face to block out a reality that seems to be getting darker by the second.
There's a story here, I suppose. Cadaver must have seen it all from his place by the window, before he hotfooted it the hell out of the burning tavern. He might whisper to me of Wintry's bravery, how he tried to carry as many people as he could out of the place before one of the big timber beams came down and cracked his head open like an egg, dropping him and suffocating beneath his weight those he'd carried in his arms, his beloved Flo among them. He might tell me the details of Cobb's descent into madness, how one minute he was a sobbing wreck, the next a raving lunatic, whooping and hollering and raging, spinning like a top with spirits flying from the open bottles in his hands. Then a match, the smell of sulfur, and a small flame ready to birth an all-consuming fire. He might say that Gracie fought Cobb to the end, maybe cold-cocked him with one of those bottles, or gutted him with the sharp end of a broken mop handle before the smoke took them both, laid them down for the fire to burn them in their sleep.
Good for Gracie.
Cadaver might tell me these things, but I don't want to hear that choked whisper from his cracked lips. My imagination is louder anyway.
"Is there a chance anyone else survived?" Kyle asks the old man, who shrugs and looks at me.
Like Wintry, there's more truth in his eyes than could ever roll off his tongue. But I'm stubborn, and what pitiful little sleep I have these days will be robbed from me tonight if I don't see for myself. There are no screams from Eddie's, no sound of anyone begging to be saved, but then we've all been damned for longer than we care to admit, and we've never cried for salvation.
I start moving toward the bar.
Kyle's hand falls firmly on my shoulder.
I start to turn, and the roof caves in. It sounds like a tree falling, a splintering crash that sends a plume of dirty smoke up before fresh fire rushes in to fill the hole, fed by the air that has tried to escape.
"Sonofabitch," someone cries out from the dark, and finally I see a shape rolling around in the shadows, batting at sparks that are trying to ignite his clothes. If the kid's able to roll, then could be his injuries are no more. We'll have to wait and see.
Crackling, spitting flames, but still no screams. On some level I know I should be thankful for that, and for the fact that this atrocity was not the Good Reverend's work, but I'm not. Not just now. Kyle is weeping, and as his hand slips
Kyle is not alone, and his company is not a decapitated burning thing. I make my way over, all but blinded by the light from the fire. It isn't until I'm right there next to Kyle that I see it's Cadaver who's with him. His eyes are narrowed against the glare, but still there's an odd look on his hollow face, almost like reverence.
"Cadaver, what happened?"
Kyle looks like a ghost, his eyes filled with fire. "He says Cobb did it. Just after we left, he went crazy and torched the place."
Cadaver nods, but adds nothing. I notice his little microphone is absent, which explains his silence. Just like Brody must have thought when the old man hunkered down next to him, Cadaver looks like death. More so now than ever before, the orange-red light only adding deeper shadow beneath the sharp outcroppings of his cheekbones.
"Where is everyone?" I ask, afraid of the answer, because I've surveyed the area more than once on my way up here and I'm surveying it now again, and I don't see anybody here but us, and that feels to me like a brand new nightmare fresh from the devil's womb, waiting to be christened by the ignorant.
Kyle looks at me, and the flames shimmer in his eyes. "Gone," he tells me. "Cadaver says they're all gone. All but Brody."
"And where's he?"
Cadaver nods in the direction of the burning building, off into the shadows the fire is weaving to the side of it. I don't see Brody, but I trust that he's there.
"Jesus." I put my hands to my face to block out a reality that seems to be getting darker by the second.
There's a story here, I suppose. Cadaver must have seen it all from his place by the window, before he hotfooted it the hell out of the burning tavern. He might whisper to me of Wintry's bravery, how he tried to carry as many people as he could out of the place before one of the big timber beams came down and cracked his head open like an egg, dropping him and suffocating beneath his weight those he'd carried in his arms, his beloved Flo among them. He might tell me the details of Cobb's descent into madness, how one minute he was a sobbing wreck, the next a raving lunatic, whooping and hollering and raging, spinning like a top with spirits flying from the open bottles in his hands. Then a match, the smell of sulfur, and a small flame ready to birth an all-consuming fire. He might say that Gracie fought Cobb to the end, maybe cold-cocked him with one of those bottles, or gutted him with the sharp end of a broken mop handle before the smoke took them both, laid them down for the fire to burn them in their sleep.
Good for Gracie.
Cadaver might tell me these things, but I don't want to hear that choked whisper from his cracked lips. My imagination is louder anyway.
"Is there a chance anyone else survived?" Kyle asks the old man, who shrugs and looks at me.
Like Wintry, there's more truth in his eyes than could ever roll off his tongue. But I'm stubborn, and what pitiful little sleep I have these days will be robbed from me tonight if I don't see for myself. There are no screams from Eddie's, no sound of anyone begging to be saved, but then we've all been damned for longer than we care to admit, and we've never cried for salvation.
I start moving toward the bar.
Kyle's hand falls firmly on my shoulder.
I start to turn, and the roof caves in. It sounds like a tree falling, a splintering crash that sends a plume of dirty smoke up before fresh fire rushes in to fill the hole, fed by the air that has tried to escape.
"Sonofabitch," someone cries out from the dark, and finally I see a shape rolling around in the shadows, batting at sparks that are trying to ignite his clothes. If the kid's able to roll, then could be his injuries are no more. We'll have to wait and see.
Crackling, spitting flames, but still no screams. On some level I know I should be thankful for that, and for the fact that this atrocity was not the Good Reverend's work, but I'm not. Not just now. Kyle is weeping, and as his hand slips
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