Lambs

by Michael Louis Calvillo

  He did all of his research on Wikipedia.org and it seemed pretty straightforward. There was no need for sucking on the tube and risking a mouthful of gas. Once the tube was in the tank it simply had to be lowered beneath the gas level within. Basic physics. Liquid always seeks its own level. All Connor had to do was let gravity do its thing.

  Before starting he was smart enough (and proud of himself for remembering given the high pressure situation) to line the bottles up within reach, even removing the caps from those with caps. Getting the tube into the tank took a few tries. Shaky, shaky. But, just as frustration started to set in and beads of sweat accumulated on his forehead, Connor breached the tank with the tube and pushed it in slowly. While working the tube downward he blew in it until he heard a gurgling sound. Bingo. Keeping the tube up with one hand, he got a hold of the Carlos & Rossi bottle and brought it close. He lowered the tube about halfway, inserted it into the bottle and then brought them both down to the floor. A second after the Carlos & Rossi bottled touched the concrete the gas started to flow. An ecstatic thrill exploded in Connor’s chest. The gas rushed forth in a quick torrent of liquid gold, its heady aroma obliterating nervous fear. Connor’s head swam. With a deep inhalation his thoughts went cotton candy wispy and spun away. A sweet, soul burning sting watered his eyes, seared his sinuses and forced a series of throat ravaging coughs. The pain was exquisite.

  Connor wanted to ride the pungent burn into the ether, but he had to keep his wits about him and finish the job. The Carlos & Rossi bottle was nearly full. Panic intruded upon the gasoline bliss out. Should he raise the entire bottle and the tube above the gas tank, stopping the current of gas before pulling it out?

  Or, should he let the fuel flow and attempt a quick transfer to a second bottle. Spillage was inevitable. But how to minimize the mess? If he spilt too much and the garage smelled too strong suspicions may arise. Connor hiked the bottle up high, held for a few seconds until the gas petered out and then removed the tube. His arms ached with strain but he fought through the pain as he kept the tube aloft with one hand and set the bottle down with the other. Sweat covered his body from head to toe and his joints ached something fierce. The Carlos & Rossi bottle was super heavy. Connor sized up the others. Was he going to be able to lug them all upstairs at once? He didn’t think he could stomach a return trip.

  Before that ever present worry ate him alive he got back to it. The Perrier bottle went smooth. The Crazy Horse bottle went smooth. Each of the Corona bottles gave him trouble and a few waves of gas washed over his hands, soaked his pajama bottoms and pooled on the concrete.

  Worse, pulling the tube from the tank, Connor was shaking so bad from exertion (coupled with his routine jitters) that he accidentally whipped it wildly and spattered himself with a face full of gas.

  Eyes closed, he took off his shirt and wiped his face clean. The smell was intense and Connor didn’t know how he was going to get to his room without being caught. Rather then dwell he finished cleaning up.

  He capped the bottles (which was as easy as screwing on their lids, save for the Corona bottles which each required a makeshift cap and a few rounds of duct tape), arranged them in his backpack, mopped up as much of the gas as he could with his shirt and then deposited the gas soaked garment in the recycle bin beneath an army of plastic bottles. The recyclables wouldn’t go out until Tuesday. Hopefully nobody would investigate. The smell was strong but once the garage door was opened it should air out. As long as he could make it through Friday and Saturday without getting found out then nothing else would matter, all would be ash.

  * * *

  At Cottonwood residents weren’t even supposed to use the bathroom without notifying staff. The staff in turn was supposed to note time spent in the restroom and be on the look out for any funny business (be it funny, sad or destructive). The current crop of kids and staff had worked together for sometime and the harsher conditions were not enforced as regularly. Thankfully bathroom privileges were open and Connor could do a little washing up before retiring to bed. Connor’s last group home enforced a strict bathroom policy. No kids were allowed in without staff standing by, ever.

  He got the bottles stashed away and though it felt like his shoulders were going to fall off from the strain, all was right with the world. If only he cold leave the gasoline on his skin. It was warm and strong and it made him feel safe. Like armor. Like love.

  * * *

  By the time he crawled into bed he had about two hours before the alarm went off and woke the house for school. Which was perfect. Connor found he functioned best on about ninety minutes of sleep.

  Excitement thrummed within and it took about ten minutes to drift off, but when he finally went under, dreaming dreams of great, world-crushing infernos, he slept like a baby.

  3. A GIRL THING

  Sometimes life felt like it was strangling you.

  Like when Melanie’s mom forced her to get extra math tutoring.

  Or when her always-too-busy dad tried to keep her from going to the movies with her friends.

  Or like now, the Blood Sacrifice rapidly approaching, her first victim secured (she hoped, although Arthur was acting very strange earlier), the rite of Blood Dominion nearly complete, another Blood Orgy just three days away, and here she was, arms buried up to the elbows in pig guts, the last lines of the dominion incantation failing to pull themselves from her brain and roll off her tongue.

  Melanie swallowed hard and took a breath.

  She wrenched her hands and tightened her grip upon the sow’s still beating heart. It thump, thumped in her grasp. The beast kicked and shuddered, squealing like mad. Sweat beaded and the thick pig’s blood that spattered her forearms and shoulders, her neck and her face, cooled and congealed and gave off a coppery, rancid odor. It was disgusting with a capital D. Melanie tried not to think about it and squeezed the pig’s heart harder still as she tried to force the words from her head.

  How did they expect a girl to memorize the stupid tomes and then recite their stupid archaic language while standing nearly naked (the little black robe they made her wear was as sheer as sheer could get), hands inside a screeching pig as your father and uncle and every man that you grew up around stood, arms crossed, watching, waiting?

  More than the men and her near nudity, how did they expect her to remember with the whole congregation encircling her and chanting?

  It was almost sick.

  Almost, but it was The Way, and her mom and her older sister and her aunts and all of the women in her family as far back as anyone could remember had gone through it.

  She tried again, “The Lord Father showers us with riches. His blood, his...” Another block.

  “Sister Melanie?” Her father’s deep, booming voice intoned from somewhere behind her.

  It was weird when he called her “Sister.” The Great Proclamation stated they were all brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, lovers and worshippers, equals, whatever, and Melanie believed in the doctrines whole heartedly, but it still felt weird, weird, weird.

  She hated to admit defeat, but the pig was dying fast. If she didn’t finish the incantation and pull the heart free before the fat thing expired the ceremony would be ruined.

  What happened then?

  Melanie didn’t think any of the women in her family had ever failed before. Was she to be the first?

  Her father repeated, “Sister?”

  “Da- um, Elder Collins, I can’t remember the—”

  “Silence sister!” Her dad’s voice shook the room. “The words are a part of you. You will find them and you will find them now!”

  The violence of his command seemed to knock something loose inside and the missing pieces of the puzzle came flooding out. She shouted, “…his way, we will never falter while walking the dark path!”

  Melanie pulled at the heart with all of her might. It came loose with a loud tearing of meat and a fountain of blood. The salty stuff sprayed her face and red droplets peppered her golden hair. Th
e sow let out a prolonged squeal and then stilled.

  * * *

  “It’s not easy punkin. None of the rites are, but that’s what makes them so special and rewarding.” Her dad stood over her, steaming mug of coffee in one hand, the daily paper rolled in the other. Leaning in he kissed her on the forehead, “I can’t believe my little girl is almost ready for priestess-ship.”

  “I couldn’t even remember the words.” Melanie shook her head in defeat and poked at her cooling pancakes with her fork.

  Her mom called from the kitchen, “I stumbled too sweetie. Right Dan?”

  “Right? You should’ve seen your mother. She took forever to get the heart free.” He rolled his eyes and smiled big.

  “Dan!” Her mom came into the dining room carrying her breakfast—a singular rice cake and then took a seat opposite Melanie. She merely gave her husband a shake of the head and then redirected, “Each test has its own difficulties, but we have faith in you sweetie.”

  “You’re going to do great tonight. And tomorrow. And especially on Sunday. Well, I’m off.” Dan Collins, super-dad, straightened his tie, smoothed out the lapels of his coat, leaned in to kiss Melanie’s head a second time, kissed his wife Marilyn on the lips and then exited the dining room for the Lexus parked in their spacious four car garage.

  The two Collins women, proud mother, stressed-out daughter, sat in silence for a few moments. Melanie continued to play with her food. Halfway through her rice cake her mom reached across the table and brushed a few errant strands of hair out of her face. “You gotta eat sweetie.” She gestured at the congealing pile of dough and syrup dying on her plate.

  “Not hungry.”

  “I couldn’t eat after Dominion either.” Her mom looked sneakily from side to side, “Don’t tell anyone, but I fed my morning-after breakfast to Louie.” Upon hearing his name the family Rottweiler, well over fifty years old, bound to life by ancient forces, came sniffing around the table. “I didn’t eat for half a week after the Sacrifice.”

  Melanie appreciated her mom’s commiseration. Her dad was nice and playing the old keep your chin held high route, but he hadn’t been through the same rituals like her mom had. The men had a few tough trials, but the women had it harder by leaps and bounds.

  “Did you ever feel bad about the pig and the other…the…the sacrifice?”

  Her mom raised her eyebrows emphatically, “Of course I did. You have to. If you don’t care then it doesn’t matter and if it doesn’t matter then there’s no point. You like this boy right? Arthur?”

  Melanie nodded her head. And she did. A great deal. She hadn’t expected to, but she definitely felt very strongly about him.

  “Good. You have to love him for the sacrifice to mean anything. Anybody can sacrifice somebody they don’t love. It’s easy. You stick the knife in, twist and then send their souls to oblivion. But when you love somebody…” A visible shudder racked her mom’s frame. “When you love somebody it feels like your sticking that knife into your own heart. If you can get through that you can get through whatever this world has to dish out. The Lord Father will be in awe of you just as much as we are in awe of him. The relationship will be formed and it will be as it should be, reciprocal, equal, and then my love you will be a woman.”

  “Almost,” Melanie corrected and sized up her mom with accusatory eyes.

  “Yes, almost.” Her mother’s inspiring tone darkened down. She knew exactly what Melanie meant by “Almost.”

  Human sacrifice was one thing. The never-ending litany of rituals was another. The Blood Orgy was something else. Melanie wasn’t sure what to do about it. It grossed her out and freaked her out and filled her veins with ice water.

  Marilyn could see the fear in her daughter’s eyes and wished she could console her further, but she couldn’t defend nor decry the orgy. It was an ancient rite (as they all were) and it was the only way in which the Lord Father Satan could enter new priestesses. It was law. There was no way around it. Marilyn had tried. She tried to find a way to protect her daughters, but the church was adamant about preserving the Ancient Path. Each of the high-ranking male affiliates of their church were to have sex with her daughter, her sweet, young, innocent, virgin daughter, as they had already done with her, and her mother Ellen, and her eldest child Judy. The thought revolted each and every one of the women, but there was no way around it.

  “There’s still time Melanie. You won’t have to… Your time won’t come until next year’s Blood Rites. There’s no need to dwell.” Marilyn said the only thing a loving mother could.

  “Next year…” It came out like a warning, a curse and a cry all rolled up into one.

  “You’ll fulfill your obligation and then be done with it.”

  Her mother was supportive and kind, but there were certain things she had no control over. Rather than beat a dead horse Melanie held off. She had been arguing with her mother (only her mother, never her father) about the impending orgy ever since she found out about it, or rather, since she understood it at the age of ten. Before that it didn’t faze her. She had attended her first nine Blood Orgies (the entire church was required to bear witness) as an oblivious child. Something inside clicked during her tenth and she rushed from the chamber crying in horror. Each year since she watched the ritual with growing dread and each year since the lump in the back of her throat got bigger and bigger and bigger as throat constricting realization flowered—Soon, that’s going to be me.

  This would be her last year as an observer.

  She didn’t know how she was going to just stand there intoning chants on cue, knowing full well that she would be the focus of next year’s ceremony.

  The two stared at each other for another long moment.

  Melanie could tell her mother wanted to say something, that she was as appalled by the rite as she was, but duty and service kept her quiet.

  “Mom?” Melanie prompted, reaching.

  “Don’t forget to take your pills.” Her mom changed the subject and gestured at a bottle of NoDoz on the table. “You need to stay awake. You need to be ready for the Lord Father’s arrival. No sleep for the next few days okay?”

  Melanie sighed loudly and continued to play with her food.

  “Okay?” Her mom repeated.

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Well, I’m stuffed. And I’ll be late if I don’t get moving.” Half a rice cake remained on the plate before her. Marilyn Collins stood up, gathered her dish and turned for the kitchen. Walking away she trailed, “Have a nice day at school kiddo.”

  Melanie left her uneaten pancakes for Emilia, their maid, and headed off to get ready for the day. She got halfway to the stairs before turning around and heading back to the table for her NoDoz.

  Last night was the first of four, night-long rituals and she wasn’t allowed to sleep until the fifth day. Although this was her first year actively participating, she had practiced staying up for the past several years and it shouldn’t be a problem. The NoDoz pills were merely a precaution. They helped to keep her fresh and running at full steam. Almost the entire church, save for some old school acolytes who preferred to keep things natural, and the kids who were too young to stay up, used them during the Blood Rites.

  The lack of sleep wouldn’t be an issue.

  The pressure was intense though, especially so this year, what with her being the only new inductee. Most of the time there were at least three or four others. There were three girls inducted last year (they were up for the Blood Orgy this year) and throughout the rituals they helped to take the focus off of one another. If somebody’s sacrifice didn’t go well or their Blood Cleansing hit a snag there was another initiate to outshine them and bury their mistakes. Not this year. This year it was all about Sister Melanie. Which was a little cool—she got all the attention—and a lot scary—she got all the attention.

  At her bathroom mirror she noticed little circles under her eyes.

  Not too bad, but not too good considering she was only one night
in.

  Nothing a little concealer wouldn’t take care of. Melanie began applying her makeup, and just as she did everyday since she could remember she began appraising her looks. She was beautiful and she knew it. Her dad was beautiful, her mom was beautiful, her sister was beautiful, hell, her dog was beautiful, and they had their Lord Father Satan to thank for it. He gave them power and gravity over the rest of the world. Inferiors. Though she didn’t feel tremendously different having killed her first pig, her first Dominion, there were subtle changes in her face. Her eyes seemed steelier, more in control. She thought she looked more womanly, almost befitting of a priestess-ship.

  Almost.

  She observed her body while getting dressed and noted that it too looked more womanly than it had before. It was ridiculous to think that last night’s ritual had any biological effects upon her body, but the psychological impact altered her perception. In the eyes of her church she was officially of age, “ripened” as they deemed girls who were actively participating in the Blood Rites for the first time, but had yet to be officially initiated by way of the Blood Orgy. Her budding womanhood was a beautiful thing, but it made Melanie sick to her stomach.

  Why couldn’t she experience sex like other girls her age—coerced by horny guys or drunk at a party or actually in love with a boyfriend?

  The orgy stole something. Melanie couldn’t put her finger on what, but she felt like she was being cheated out of her innocence. As disgusting as the whole thing was she supposed these sacred rituals were necessary. Her church was strong and each rite served as a contributing factor to their superiority. The Sacrifices, the Blood Rites, even the Blood Orgy, all served to make them strong, able-bodied, able-minded servants of the Lord Father.