Ultramaryne: Chapter 10.5

Hey! Celebrating 200 
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Thank you for supporting me!

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Ultramaryne: Chapter 10

Just a warning: I may not be posting next Sunday, since I have a ton of school and work things going on :/ The only reason I managed this week was I drew four pages on Labor day. 

Thank you guys for reading! 

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Ultramaryne: Short Story #4

Sacrifice

By Cbeppa

You are a tourist. Not the obvious, camera-and-aloha-shirt kind, but far enough from home to feel a little out of place. The year is 1978, and you are lost somewhere in southern California. You've been driving for hours and hours and, disconcertingly, your gas dial has descended into the red. You stare through the windshield at the diorama of caked, rocky dust. You're searching for any sign of human habitation, though there hasn't been so much as a farmhouse in miles. Small, withered clumps of cacti whiz by so fast you hardly notice them. In the distance, you can see tree-dotted hills shimmering in the late afternoon haze. What if I break down, you wonder. The ocean can't be more than a few miles away. I could live on fish and seaweed for a while. You are not worried enough yet to panic. You're only hypothesizing. Of course, there are dangerous animals living in the water around here. Maybe I'd stay in the desert and eat cactus. But it can get pretty cold...

Now you are climbing a slight incline. The tablespoon of gas in your tank spills to the very back, and your normally-reliable car sputters in distress. When you crest the hill, however, you relax your uneasy grip on the steering wheel. A generic green sign reads: 'Welcome to Bleak Silver, Population 402.' Someone has spray-painted a drippy orange peace sign over the information.

At the bottom of the hill, you pull into a decrepit filling station. A weathered wooden sign sits forlornly in the parking lot. You can see that it used to say, 'Namaste Gas,' but someone has taped a piece of paper over the top that informs, 'Basima Fuel and Auto Repair' in purple highlighter. Gray paint is peeling away from the structure in the wind as if it has some kind of architectural skin disease. You walk inside after filling up and buy a few Goldfish snacks and a bottle of pop. Basima, the proprietor, scans your items. She seems happily surprised to have a customer. You ask her for hotel suggestions. She replies that though there isn't an official hotel in town, several residents rent out rooms as bed and breakfasts. But, she regrets to inform you, most of the townspeople are attending a council meeting. She hasn't been invited, as she only moved here a few months ago and needs to run the station. She's heard that the council meetings have excellent refreshments – shrimp salad, smoked tuna, those sorts of things. If you went there and asked, someone would certainly give you a room for the night. Normally, it was essential to have an invite, but she is sure they will take your situation into account. Basima pulls a pen from her hijab and sketches a quick map on a napkin. You thank her and return to your car.

As you drive through town, you realize that Basima hadn't been exaggerating. The streets are deserted besides a few bored-looking teenagers sitting on front of the theater. They eye you warily. You stop, roll down your window, and ask if any of their parents are around. Perhaps if there are, it will save you a trip. But none of the kids will make eye contact. They pretend they can't see you, and you finally give up. Their heads swivel in unison as they watch you drive away. Even for teenagers, they seem less polite than you're used to. Basima's map leads you out of town and towards the low hills in the east. The road turns from asphalt to potholes to gravel.

The sun is setting now. Your mind wanders. You have been driving since early this morning and can't wait to eat a hot meal and take a long bath. You hope that your bed and breakfast will have nice pillows. The one at the hotel last night was far too thin... The car rattles over a cattle guard, interrupting your thoughts. You have arrived at a wide cement parking lot. It is full of cars, vans, and pickups, and you can hear people's voices at the far end as you step out of your car. The sun has set and it's getting chilly. You hug your sweater close to your body as you navigate the rows of vehicles toward the sound of voices. When you reach the end of the lot and see the source of the sound, you freeze in shock. There are so many people. What you thought was innocent debate about civic issues is now obviously a low, vehement chanting. You do not recognize the language.

In the center of the wide ring of people there is a huge, blazing fire of logs, and in the middle of that... You must have made a sound on accident, because now everyone has turned around. They are all looking at you. Now that they are facing you, you can see the blood spackling the front of their sky blue, glyph-stenciled robes. Every eye is staring at you, even the dead white ones of the tiger shark suspended over the blaze with a shop crane. Everyone is silent for several moments. The people glace at one another apprehensively, trying to communicate with only their expressions. They seem unwilling to speak, almost as if doing so will destroy the sanctity of the moment and the place. You wonder where on earth they found the shark. Is hunting sharks even legal? You haven't yet comprehended that you are in danger. Then, finally, someone speaks.

“Well, this is... unfortunate. Highly unfortunate.”

The cold, emotionless tone sends a jolt of adrenaline through your veins. You turn swiftly and try to run away, but your eyes are blinded by after-glow from the fire. You trip over something and as you struggle to get up, you feel hands grabbing you roughly. They are lifting you, carrying you back into the circle of light...