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...
WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHT
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