Lambs

by Michael Louis Calvillo

  “I do.” Arthur looked off into space. “And I don’t blame you but,” he turned and looked him in the eyes, “you can’t do it again. You’re out. You’re free. You have to keep your nose clean and stay out of trouble or it’s right back to a home. Or worse. Leon is dead. They’ll put you in jail.”

  All true.

  And all scary. Connor couldn’t go to jail. He had bitch written all over his little frame.

  But the confidence was building and the fears were becoming nonissues. They had a plan and he was going to follow it through. The only thing he worried about now was Arthur’s meeting with the Satanists. True, he would throw them off of Connor’s trail, but he wasn’t so sure why Arthur was so positive they wouldn’t kill him. Maybe he was right, but they would detain him at the very least. This was the sort of thing they should go to the police about (if he hadn’t already committed arson and murder and god knows what else).

  Connor stuttered out his concerns.

  “I’ll be okay. I’ve got a plan.”

  Connor rolled his eyes.

  “No, it’s a good one.”

  “I-I-Is t-t-this about M-M-Melanie?” Connor suspected as much.

  “No! I mean, no.” Arthur made a face.

  Why wouldn’t it be about Melanie? If it was Connor going back it would be about her. If it was him going back he’d let The Flame have her. When he thought about the manipulation and sadder, the sheep-like devotion, he felt the fire rising within.

  “F-F-Fuckin’ b-b-bitch,” he seethed again.

  Arthur shook his head in agreement. “It has nothing to do with her. She’s dead to me. I could care less.”

  “Th-Then d-d-don’t go.”

  “I told you, it’s not her. There’s something else.” Arthur reached over and pulled Connor’s hood over his head. “You ready then?”

  “Y-Y-Yeah.” There was no talking Arthur out of it. Besides, he’d go along with anything to help get those Satanist fuckers off his back. Connor hoped Arthur would meet him on Tuesday as planned. But if he didn’t, he didn’t, either way a plan was in place and it felt good to have direction.

  “What’s your name?” Arthur smiled.

  Connor returned it. “Kingsley Prescott Scott, Esquire.”

  “Hell yeah.”

  “A-A-And yours?”

  Arthur’s eyes flashed. “Constantine Prince Elevation, the 3rd.”

  “H-H-Hell y-y-yeah.”

  “Hollywood is ours my man.”

  They got to their feet and slapped five.

  “Tues—” Arthur’s words died in his throat and his eyes went wide and filled with panic. “Run!” He yelled at the top of his lungs.

  Connor turned to look behind him when Arthur lunged out and pushed him. The shove caught him off guard and Connor lost his footing. He slammed down to the concrete on his left arm. It snapped like a twig and sent a cold shiver throughout his body. The pain from the broken bone didn’t have time to register as the concrete punched him again and again while he tumbled down the embankment to the bottom of the overpass. When he finally stopped, a broken heap on the pavement, he came to rest on his back. His brain was fuzzy and the underside of the overpass, vibrating ever so slightly with each passing car, looked as if it was wobbling wild.

  From atop the slope Arthur was still screaming for him to “Run!”

  Connor wanted to punch the fucker in the face and then ask him what his problem was. He took a deep breath and prepared to get up and assess the damage when a sharp buzz in his left temple sent sparks showering over his brain.

  * * *

  Fifteen

  The Molotov Cocktail burned beautifully.

  Black to white to red and back.

  Its fuse, shreds of a gasoline soaked T-shirt, curled fast and sucked the air out of the room like a hungry god.

  Temporary glass glistened until…

  Instant ignition.

  The art of conception.

  A zygote aflame.

  The womb shattered into a zillion, glittery pieces.

  The atmosphere raged.

  All the pain and loss and fear coalescing into something physical. Bottled violence given a name.

  You reap what you sow—a “F-F-Fuck you” to the world. You reap what you sow—a warning. You reap what you sow—a promise.

  The Flame.

  * * *

  Fourteen

  A row of eighteen Bunsen burners lined the long table that ran the back wall of his ninth grade Biology class. Connor stared at them all year, saliva thick in his mouth, a lump in his throat making it hard to swallow. He eyed the tubes snaking from their bases, coiling, ending upon a metal nipple. A simple twist, a striking of flint, an endless flame.

  Mr. Bosch promised. “Soon,” he said.

  And the promise hung over the classroom like an obfuscating cloud of expectation. Each day Connor would ask, “T-T-Today?”

  And each day Mr. Bosch would reply, “Not today. Soon.”

  He’d smile and say he appreciated Connor’s “enthusiasm.” As if he understood. As if he had any idea. Oh, the things Connor wanted to do with the infinite torch. Not just one, but all eighteen, raging at once.

  When they finally lit the bad boys up Connor had to keep whispering “O-O-Okay” under his breath.

  It was all he could do to keep from passing out.

  * * *

  Thirteen

  Cigarettes weren’t allowed at Cottonwood. It didn’t stop Leon from smoking them. Not that he was in complete violation—during his shift, late, late, graveyard, while the rest of the house slept and Connor was usually in his closet scheming, the resident assistant stepped outside and smoked one down.

  Sometimes Connor watched from the window.

  Sometimes he let his mind go and he fell into a slack-jawed stare. Vision went blurry and the buzz of the world vibrated between his ears like the everlasting din of a tuning fork’s hum. He pictured leaving his body and hovering down to the front porch. He pictured taking the cigarette from between Leon’s pursed lips and tracing words into the night sky.

  Stuck in his body he pressed his nose to the glass and focused on that slow burning cherry.

  He wondered what it would feel like to put it out on Leon’s mocha skin.

  * * *

  Twelve

  Back to the closet.

  His new roommate Arthur just moved in.

  While Cottonwood was filling spaces Connor got lucky—for three weeks he had his own room. He didn’t need the closet. He didn’t need to crawl away and hide. During the brief stint of solitude he felt special, as if the world finally understood what he needed.

  Space.

  More space.

  Late night, he could sit on his bed, in plain view, unfettered by confining walls, and spark the Zippo he stole from Devon the retard (who in turn stole the chrome lighter from his mom). He could imagine big for a change, and dream that the whole world was burning not just a tiny piece of it.

  * * *

  Eleven

  Cottonwood smelled new when he first arrived. It wasn’t, but it smelled a hell of a lot better than Park. Also, it was a normal house. It was made of wood and stucco and drywall. Its incendiary properties thrilled Connor to no end. He’d spend day after day staring at support beams and door jambs and cabinetry.

  He imagined it burning from day one.

  A pyre.

  Salvation.

  At long last hope.

  When he discovered the secret stash in his closet it felt like Christmas, no (Christmas sucks), like his birthday, no (birthdays suck), like a good dream times a thousand.

  * * *

  Ten

  His new placement was modeled after a prison.

  Everything was made of metal.

  It was where they sent psychos like him.

  Suicidals.

  But he only took the pills to quiet The Flame. It begged to be born.

  And Connor told it he wished he never was.

  And it told him t
ough shit, here you are.

  And he told it “Look around, nothin’ to burn here—here you are.”

  And the fetus Flame made Connor smile more than usual. It made him behave and act sane. It willed freedom from the inside out.

  * * *

  Nine

  The fire wasn’t his fault. Tyrell was fucking around, calling him a “Crack Baby” (real original), pushing an already redlining Connor to the limit. Earlier, a group of popular girls began calling him The Goblin. Ralph, the swing shift resident, was cooking tortillas on the gas stovetop. He stepped away for a second. Connor snatched Tyrell’s notebook from the kitchen table, stuck a corner into the exposed burner and lit it up. Simple. Ralph and the house manager Mr. Nole went off.

  To his room. To the closet. But he snuck down after dinner and found a bottle of pills in the nice tutor lady’s purse.

  First the hospital. Then it was off to Park and its metal halls.

  * * *

  Eight

  His first group home was scary, but it felt like a sanctuary. He was sick of trying to fit in with wacko families that didn’t want him.

  They were a nice bunch too.

  Connor discovered the cool, calm of the closet.

  When he found a book of matches he couldn’t help himself. The nightstand went up fast.

  The staff Psych wrote of “an emerging pattern” in his file.

  Nobody paid much attention.

  * * *

  Seven

  Stupid ass multi-cultural Starks. The flaming curtains were a revelation though. He had done it. Not on purpose, the candle took a tumble, but Connor had inadvertently released potential and marveled at what The Flame could do. The thrill altered his brain chemistry and wired him for fire. Something inside clicked.

  He didn’t have to be the victim.

  He could control it.

  He could use it.

  * * *

  Six

  Foster Family two.

  Da-Da (as he was instructed to call the lumbering oaf that claimed to be his “New Dad”) held Connor’s hand to a red hot skillet handle to teach him a lesson. The burn pushed tears from his wide eyes and silent screams from his tiny throat. Connor missed his mommy more than ever.

  He wanted to run but there was nowhere to go.

  * * *

  Five

  Foster family one.

  A day at the mall meant a day in the car for Connor and his two foster brothers. They played and tried to ignore the sticky vinyl beneath their legs. It became too much. They all cried when the sweat began to run unbearable rivers.

  A mall security guard found them and called the police.

  * * *

  Four

  Coke parties. His beautiful mom wilting like a flower on fast forward. There were orgies and screams and an ever-burning undercurrent of fire.

  The Flame eternal.

  The Flame everlasting.

  * * *

  Three

  The crack fiends burned his baby nutsack.

  They held him down with laughter and clammy hands. Greasy hair. Fetid breath. His mom held his penis out of the way.

  * * *

  Two

  His mom took him to a park on July fourth. They ate hotdogs and watched fireworks.

  They were the most beautiful things ever.

  * * *

  One

  Her warm embrace was all he ever needed.

  * * *

  The buzzing grew and grew until there was nothing. The overpass above faded away and the night sky became everything.

  Connor drifted backwards and forwards through time.

  Space.

  His shakes stilled.

  His brain cooled.

  His words flowed like light, smooth, unbroken, clear.

  Perfumed arms held him close, the softest skin in the universe, and kisses peppered his forehead while whispers of “I love you” rang in his ears.

  At long last, he was home.

  12. BRIGHT YOUNG THING

  Heartache was secondary. Her everlasting soul was at stake here. True, Melanie locked eyes with Arthur after he tackled her and the love-love within responded. It wrenched at her heart for a moment, but rather than overwhelming (as the gooey emotion tended to) and breaking her down to schoolgirly pulp, the spirit inside bolstered her up. It armor plated her nerve and crushed the mounting ever-after fantasy. The Lord Father was in her—ravenous for the pure soul writhing on the slab—and there was no time for a stupid crush.

  The Beast was fully engaged, mantras and prayers giving it weight and definition. Melanie was about three lines from driving the dagger downward and giving the Master what it wanted when Arthur took her down and broke their communion. The spirit left then. It flittered from her body in an instant and she felt hollow and thin-skinned like one of the ceramic dolls her Nana used to buy her.

  The dagger flew from her hands. She hit the ground hard. Everything spun. When she looked into Arthur’s eyes she saw hope. She was only seventeen but she saw future potential, life potential. He was one of them. He was marriage material.

  All of her life, the Organization organized picnics or Family Fun Days at amusement parks or two summers ago when the church managed to rent a huge chunk of coastline in Hawaii for a gigantic Luau, she had been secretly searching for that special someone. The church no longer forced arranged marriages as it had throughout the centuries. The Elders voted them out back in the sixties. Periodic reforms tended to ease the draconian grip of the ancients (how long before the old ways were completely lost?). But there were still rules regarding unions. Outsiders had to sacrifice everything and will themselves over completely. If Melanie wanted a sane husband she couldn’t marry an outsider. What kind of person would allow their entire family to be killed just so they could become a member of the church and marry in? No, she had to find a suitable match within the ranks—which never seemed like a problem. There were lots of mixers and the Organization had pockets worldwide. Melanie could travel anywhere and do anything and still have the opportunity to meet an acolyte.

  But she had met one here, in her own backyard so to speak, fate guiding them together. And she had already fallen in love with him. And it was like a dream come true. And the stupid fucker threatened her entire congregation with a fucking hand grenade!

  Boys!

  But he didn’t understand. He had the mark, true, but somehow he lost his way. Melanie (however inadvertently) brought him back to the fold and she couldn’t be mad at him for freaking out.

  Yet she was.

  Standing opposite him while he freed Connor and waved the explosive and intimidated his way out of the warehouse, she was pissed. She felt empty and broken—the Lord Father had his hooks in her and she felt closer to him than she ever had. He was inside her. Not an idea or faith spun prayer, but real. Physical. Like a thick, choking, omni-insinuating cloud. And Arthur’s stupid heroics took that away. Melanie bristled with anger. She wished her dad or any of the other Elders, maybe the Sentinels, would have stepped in and wrestled the grenade away from him. She wished they would have tied him to the altar and allowed her to begin again. At that very moment she wanted to carve the heart from his chest and eat it whole.

  But now, she was over it.

  After the debacle the Sentinels whisked her away to her preparatory compartment. They were given orders to stand guard outside the door. “No one in, no one out,” she heard her dad command.

  But now, staring at the picture of Arthur taped to her vanity her heart swooned. He was brave. And strong. And though he didn’t understand it yet, he was one of them. Once they caught him (and they would catch him—there was no escaping the Organization, it was impossible to run from something that was everywhere—like trying to run from the air), they would bring him back. He would be debriefed. She would help him understand their ways and in time, the Lord Father willing, they would be married.

  The Lord Father willing.

  Forget future mining, there was t
he little matter of her botched Sacrifice to freak out over. When Arthur interrupted the ritual and the spirit evacuated, it ripped through her body with malign promise, as if to say this body is mine, this soul is mine. Which was true, she belonged to the Lord Father mind, body and soul, but unconsecrated as she was, unfused, unvested, she felt like she was missing from the equation. The Sacrifice worked to join her with the Lord Father. The broken ceremony gave the Lord Father dominion, but because she didn’t follow through they weren’t properly joined. Whatever she was, felt empty and detached and scared. There would be repercussions and she feared she would be pulled apart, wrenched even further (if it was possible) from her sense of self and well being.

  Melanie sat on the kneeling stone before her Blood Altar and bit the shit out of her lower lip. Her knee bobbed up and down at a million miles per hour.

  Fucking Arthur! She hated him. She loved him. He royally screwed her over.

  The look in her dad’s eyes was pure panic. Melanie noticed a few of the Elders wore smirks and raised their eyebrows in bemused satisfaction. The wolves were ready to pounce. Whatever above-her-head politics were about to ensue (were already ensuing in the conference chamber) her dad was feeling the heat. He was going to be stressed out and her mom was going to cry and even Judy, back from college for the Blood Sacrifice, would feel her heart thrum with worry. They were connected, of the blood, and when one of them fell, they fell together.