Lambs

by Michael Louis Calvillo

  Connor closed the door and held it shut. There were a few abortive pulls, but he managed to keep the door closed tightly until the screaming and thrashing faded away to a cacophony of consistent crackling. He scooped up his last soldier and then ran downstairs. At the base of the stairwell he lit the last fuse and threw it upward at the top stair. The Crazy Horse bottle detonated with a deep thump and spread fire trails in every direction.

  The mission was near complete. All that remained was a mad dash for freedom. While rounding the bottom stair, Connor noticed Alberto and Jo-Jo in the kitchen. Alberto was sitting at the kitchen table while Jo-Jo was babbling into the phone. He paid the narcs no mind and continued down the hall for the garage. When he tried to open the door leading into the garage he was surprised to discover it was locked. Connor had assumed Leon would’ve left it open for Arthur’s date.

  Panic sent an army of tingles over the undersides of his skin.

  Fuck!

  Connor headed back down the hall. He ran past Jo-Jo and Alberto in the kitchen and into the Administrative office. The keys weren’t on their hook.

  Panic set the tingle army into a frenzy.

  Fuck!

  Leon must have had the keys on him.

  The top floor of the house was a raging firestorm by now. Connor wiped the sweat from his brow and ran through the kitchen yet again. This time Alberto tried to get in his way. Connor swung the tote bag at him and the knobby grenade thunked off the big guy’s head. He went down like a sack of potatoes. Connor turned on Jo-Jo and swung the tote in tight, angry circles. Johara put up his hands as if to say “chill” and then actually said “Chill Connor man!”

  Back to the base of the stairs.

  Sure enough, a wall of fire thundered atop.

  Without those keys he was shit out of luck. Every exit was sealed up tight. Connor wiped more sweat from his eyes. He looked around frantically. The front window, a big, bright bay-style pane of glass, was his only hope, but not really, because he didn’t think he had the strength to shatter it. But then again, he did have a grenade. But then again, he hated to waste it blowing up a window. He planned on using it on someone or something a bit more substantial. If worse came to worse he was going to use it to blow himself up.

  Think Connor, think.

  Alberto was a big motherfucker. Strong. And Jo-Jo too, though he was more of the skinny, lanky type.

  Connor pulled the grenade from the tote and let the bag fall to the floor. He clasped a shaky finger around the pin and held the explosive in front of him like a gun.

  Back to the kitchen. He pointed the grenade at Alberto (who had just gotten up from the linoleum) and Jo-Jo. They both put their hands up and backed away.

  “M-m-ove m-m-m-motherfuckers!” Connor gestured toward the front living room. His hostages were quick to respond.

  Connor followed them and pointed at the window with the grenade. “B-B-Break it!!!!” He screamed like a demon, ferocious, his whole body vibrating the words out with a force that seemed inhuman.

  Immediately Alberto and Johara began scrambling. They threw furniture—Alberto an end table, Johara a lamp. Nothing. They repeated the process to no avail. Connor kept screaming at them, those panicky tingles grew to a throbbing pain of desperation. Alberto pointed at the coffee table and Johara grabbed an end. They heaved the heavy thing up, and on the count of three, 1, 2, 3, swung it into the window. It crashed through and thudded onto the front lawn in a sparkling shower. Connor wasted no time. He shoved the grenade in his front pocket then barreled past his mules and through the hole.

  Melanie’s vehicle was parked alongside the front curb. A dark figure was hobbling toward it. It wore no pants and a bright white pair of tightie whitees.

  Connor ran for it. On his way he noticed an array of shiny jewels littering the drive way and the side lawn. Arthur must have smashed the bedroom window and jumped from the second story.

  They reached the Range Rover a second apart. Arthur pulled open the front passenger’s door and fell into the seat. Connor grappled with the rear door and jumped into the backseat.

  There was a moment of tense silence in the car, its three occupants staring at one another with half-open mouths. The absence of sound held for one second, two, until they all spoke up at the same time, tearing the quiet asunder, their words blending, meaning demolished beneath the violence of frenetic human noise.

  6. IMPULSE CONTROL

  Earlier…

  As usual the Blood Feast was disgusting.

  Not that you could tell by watching the church constituency make merry and gorge themselves on blood corn, blood roast and blood biscuits. Black hoods up, the majority of them carried on as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Grins flashed above their blood-spattered chins and small talk flowed easy between each foul bite. Melanie tuned out the revelers, kept her head down and her mind clear. It was best not to think too much about it. It was best to shut off her sense of taste and smell and just eat.

  She wasn’t alone. There were a handful of others pushing at their food with a leery fork, or a slow, slow, slowly sawing knife. Which was stupid. They all had to finish. It was law. No point in prolonging the pain. It was better to just power through and get the messy, nausea-inducing meal over with.

  There were seven courses in all, each a traditional dish suitable for a celebratory feast, each infused with a generous portion of sacrificial blood (a mouth watering combination of the human and pig variety—yummy!). Some of the selections, the blood soup, the blood ale, and the blood pie, in particular, were the worst. More than anything they retained that full-bodied coppery flavor born of the red stuff. The Elders loved it. Or so they claimed. The bloodier the better. Like in days of old when acolytes drank it pure, golden chalices filled to the brim, hot and steaming, directly from sacrificial throats.

  Yuck!

  Ever since she was a little girl, Melanie had trouble getting most of it down, especially the soup (which tasted like a bowlful of liquid pennies), and she couldn’t understand how anybody in their right mind could enjoy the taste. She suspected that nobody did. She suspected that the Elders’ (her dad included) supposed appreciation of the more sanguine dishes was nothing more than a ruse to keep everybody in line and following the status quo.

  At least the roast and biscuits were tolerable. The meat tasted like a rare, salty hunk of steak should and the bread, although a bit too salty and pink, like briny cotton candy, was fluffy and buttery.

  After the feast Melanie felt nauseous, antsy. She was tired, nervous, sour stomached (this year’s blood pie was even more god awful than usual, clumpy and clotty and thick) and stressed. She had to pick up Arthur (and Connor? Why, oh why, had she invited Connor?) at eleven, yet she couldn’t get away from the Blood Rites until the baptisms were finished.

  If she didn’t get her sacrifice to the Sentinels before midnight she would never hear the end of it.

  The Blood Sacrifice required a twenty-four hour prep-period minimum. The Sentinels had to have their fun (cleansing, anointing). The Diviner had to conduct the interview. The Inductee (her) had to have her final face to face. If she screwed up she would be bombarded with a barrage of told you so shit-talking from all sides. From her father to her mother to Charles Pickett—You’re cutting it kind of close. Inductees generally turned their sacrifices over to the Sentinels a few days to a week early.

  The Blood Baptisms were scheduled to begin promptly at ten. There were only four new babies this year, but the Blood Feast ran late and the ceremony, usually ten minutes a baby, would probably run over and screw up her timetable. She had never driven to Cottonwood before. According to Mapquest it should take her twenty minutes tops. Which meant the baptisms had to be finished by 10:40 or she would be late. Which meant she would probably be late. Hopefully Arthur would be able to wait if need be.

  The baptisms were always her favorite. The newest members of the church were sooooo cute. They ranged in age from three weeks to one year (the oldest being bo
rn right after last year’s Blood Rites, the youngest last month) and Melanie could just eat them up (metaphorically speaking of course—her sect had its perversions, fortunately, baby eating wasn’t one of them). As with all of the Blood Rites there was blood, lots of it, in a gold plated baptismal bowl, but unlike the messier rites it wasn’t ingested or spilled, only lightly rippled by the top of each baby’s head and used to paint an inverted cross on each of their adorable, squishy, little pink torsos.

  As usual Diviner Parks was doing the honors. The Elders passed each baby along to him and he carefully breached the surface of the baptismal blood (part virginal menstrual blood—Melanie had donated her portion two weeks ago) with the infant’s crown. He then held the baby aloft as Elder Smithson assisted and painted the upside down cross on its belly.

  Once all of the babies were properly anointed, four Elders (her dad amongst them) held each of the babies while Brother Pickett and Brother Hanlon carried the baptismal bowl off (in addition to jailors, the Sentinels tended to most labors—moving this, moving that). The church chanted the baptismal tome until Sentinel Pickett returned with the Iron Mark. He handed the rod to Diviner Parks and each Elder positioned their baby.

  The Iron Mark was essentially a branding iron. It was a four foot rod of polished iron that ended in a tiny, white hot brand—a quarter inch, modified pentagram. As with all Satanic Sects the pentagram was inverted, but specific to Melanie’s church, there was a second pentagram embedded within the first, its entirety contained completely within the blank space dead center of the initial star.

  The Diviner chanted the Lord Father’s Mark, “Unto him we relinquish our souls” and pressed the fiery brand into the inner left thigh of the first infant.

  Melanie closed her eyes just as the baby began to howl. She couldn’t watch the metal sizzling into soft baby flesh. In fact, most of those around her did the same and with each baby branded a collective shiver resonated throughout the assembly. In their time, each of them had been marked. Their subconscious shuddered and their birthmarks burned with remembrance.

  After the ceremony each baby was swathed in their very own miniature, black, hooded robe. A final chant issued forth and then the congregation surrounded them for hugs and kisses, ritualistic rigidness temporarily shelved for an informal welcoming into the fold.

  * * *

  There was a sliver of truth to the lie Melanie fed Arthur. Though this wasn’t the first time her dad let her take the Range Rover on her own it still felt like it, and like she told Arthur she was incredibly nervous in the driver’s seat. Every time she got behind the wheel she felt shaky, shaky. She preferred to be driven from place to place, but the Sacrifice and each of its subsequent steps—Trust Building, Capture and then The Knife—were purely solo affairs.

  So here she was cruising to Arthur’s house in her dad’s swanky SUV, hoping to high hell to avoid an accident. The last thing she needed was another delay to mess her up. If she was late getting her sacrifice to holding there would be hell to pay. Bill Hanlon and Charles Pickett would surely rat and her dad would see to it that she offered up the proper penance after the week’s Blood Rites concluded.

  She wondered if Connor would take the bait.

  If she was late and that little freak did come along the Sentinels would be pleased as punch—so much so they would surely forgive her a few minutes tardiness.

  Melanie wasn’t quite sure why she invited the little guy in the first place (yes she was), but when Arthur didn’t show at the movies her mind just sort of went cuckoo on her.

  She blamed impulse.

  Lack of sleep.

  Opportunity: a substitute?

  Maybe?

  Stranger things had happened.

  So then, if Arthur really was sick (or sick of her) and he backed out leaving her high and dry, and the little freakazoid met her outside instead, who was to know he wasn’t her intended sacrifice?

  It’s not like her mom and dad had met Arthur. No question they would be surprised with her interesting choice. Some would even think she was copping out. The idea here was to fall in love with your sacrifice. One look at Connor and the church would be quick to assume Melanie chose him because he was odd and awkward and disposable. Which wasn’t fair. She could (probably) fall in love with someone like Connor (maybe). Okay, probably (maybe) not, but it still wasn’t fair for them to judge based upon his physical shortcomings.

  So then, if it were just Connor waiting for her on the curb she would do her best to put on a show.

  She could lie to her parents easy enough. Same for the church. No problems, done and done. But could she lie to the spirit?

  Did she really believe in all of it?

  She supposed she did, all these years of going through the rites, reading the tomes, and no matter what her heart wanted (Arthur) she couldn’t cheat on her soul. But if it was just Connor waiting what could she do?

  Show up empty handed?

  Hell no.

  If it was just Connor, he would have to do; she could sort her internal struggles out with the Lord Father later.

  And if both Arthur and Connor awaited her?

  Here is where she felt idiotic. Here is where she regretted impulsively inviting the little spaz. Even though she would prefer to sacrifice his shaky ass she would have to be true to her heart and go with Arthur and then the little freak would have to die at the hands of the Sentinels or in some upcoming ritual and she would feel horrible for dooming him in an effort to save a boyfriend that was impossible to save.

  And if it was just Arthur, just him and his adorable smile and cute slouch?

  She would feel the best and the worst at the same time.

  This was the ideal. The original plan. Uncomplicated. Straight forward. Simple. But not, because how could she follow through with the rite and drive a knife into his heart?

  How could she sit with him during the Face to Face and explain and watch him come apart over the realization that their love was a trap?

  How could she turn him over to the Sentinels?

  How could she be so deceitful and cruel and horrible?

  How could she do something as awful as smiling and flirting in an effort to get him to drink from the flunitrazepam spiked water bottle sitting in the beautiful, brushed aluminum cup holder of her father’s tricked out Range Rover?

  * * *

  Just as they all started talking at once, they stopped and there was another moment of awkward silence before Connor took the initiative and yelled, “D-D-D-rive!!!!!” at the top of his little lungs.

  Melanie complied and stepped on the gas. Well, pushed on the gas and brought the Range Rover up to speed at a moderate rate. The boys looked like hell. They were in the Rover so fast that she had only glimpsed them and managed to ask, “What the?” before Connor’s command compelled her to move. Driving required both eyes on the road so there was no time for long assessing looks. But she could smell them, ripe like sour milk, as odorous as onions, and out of her peripheral vision it was plain to see that Arthur wasn’t wearing any pants. A giggle bubbled, pantlessness was in her top ten of funny, but quickly died beneath a wave of concern—even in her peripheral it was clear to see that his legs were shiny with sweat and peppered with soot (?) and speckled with blood (?).

  What the hell happened?

  Arriving at Cottonwood, everything was quiet. She parked alongside the curb four minutes early (ha!) and began to check her makeup in the rearview when she heard a loud BOOM! Averting her cosmetic stare she caught a quick flash of fire as she was turning her head (origin unknown) and then in 3, 2, 1, the smelly boys were piling into the vehicle.

  Hands holding the wheel tight, mind fixated on the road, she ventured a question. “Arthur?” It was vague, but precise. She chanced a glance, the road whizzing beneath them unchecked. Nerves jangled. Arthur’s face was a mask of hurt.

  His voice came out in a wheezy groan, more air than vocalization, “Killed—”

  Connor yelled, loudly from the b
ackseat, “N-N-N-o A-Arthur!”

  The bombast of his voice drew Melanie’s eyes to the rearview. The little guy looked wild. He was dripping sweat and there was a running cut on his forehead. His tiny hands were balled into fists and his whole body vibrated as he tried to push out more words.

  “Yes Connor,” Arthur fired back. “You…”

  Melanie checked the road and then back to Arthur. His mouth hung open mid-sentence. He was staring at his hand. Melanie followed his line of vision. Blood. It shone from his fingers near black in the darkened cabin. Chrome and the slick, interior glow of the Rover’s instrument panel played over it in curved arcs of broken light. “You…” He looked over at Melanie. “You…” His eyes looked droopy. Melanie offered him an encouraging nod. He smiled weakly and then passed out, slumping forward, his head lolling on his knees.

  Connor shouted, “I-I-I d-d-d-idn’t!” from the back. Tears broke his voice.

  Melanie pulled over as quickly as possible (which took forever). They were fairly close to the church’s secret ceremony installation. The ceremonial chambers were made from traditional stone, as cavernous and creepy as the blood rooms of their ancestors, and like their ancestors the chambers were many feet below ground, but instead of being accessed through secret caves or a series of catacombs their ritual rooms were fronted by an unimposing warehouse in an industrial district. Luckily, the warehouse-only streets were deserted at this time of night. Melanie jumped out of the Rover and ran around to the passenger’s side. She threw open the door, grabbed Arthur by the head and pulled him close to her bosom.