Sunday, February 8, 2015

One Way Trip

Three hours of crawling through slimy storm drains gained Francis entry into Elder Phelps’ wine cellar.  Grate out of the way, he climbed onto the cool stone floor and collapsed on his back.  He considered this poorly planned mission as he regained his composure.  There had been no time for decent recon.  The recent televised sacrifice of his Oxnard neighbors demanded an instant response from his 666er cell.  He assumed it would be a one way trip.

He shined his flashlight around the room.  There were barrels and wine racks filled with bottles.  Above him hung a chain with an iron ring.   He shined his light on the grate.  At once he knew what the chain and ring were for. 

Finding his way down a long narrow hall, he found the stairs leading to the kitchen.  The map indicated he was to take the servant stairway on his right to the second floor.  The master bedroom was the first door on the left.

Making no sound, he found his way to the bedroom door.  He thought it odd there were no bodyguards along his route.  It was too easy.  Francis shook it off, took some deep breaths, and pulled his knife out.  Ever so slowly he turned the knob.  It was unlocked.

This was it.  Time for some payback.  He passed through the door and worked his way silently to the bed.  A small night light plugged in near the bed was the room’s only light.  A covered figure lay on the bed.   Francis stood some moments over the bed, the grip of his knife slick with sweat.  He wanted to look Elder Phelps in the eye when he slit his throat.  He pulled back the covers, and immediately stumbled back in shock.  He began to retch and cough.  Laying there was Mrs. Simmons, ravaged and bloody.  She was his friend and neighbor and one of the sacrificed he came to avenge.

From the shadows, ”That’s right, we knew you were coming.”  Francis turned as Elder Phelps and two of his AAG goons came toward him.

“Take him back to the wine cellar.  I will be down shortly.”
Image courtesy of Ashwin Rao

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