THAT NIGHT IN THE CAVE -- A SHORT STORY

 

That Night in the Cave

“Trent! Grab the staff,” Luther boomed, his large frame tense and golden. The cave walls shimmered as the fire crackled and popped, casting the shadows of a dozen men. The final ritual had begun. Trent did as he was told because Trent always did what he was told, especially when it came to Luther. People in town knew Luther, knew he didn’t mess around. Had this gone too far? Absolutely. Trent knew that. Nobody should have to die over small town politics. Besides, although Trent wasn't a smart man, he suspected that the Hashtons were no more a threat to their community than fly to the moon. But, what was he to do? The fire was roaring and Christina, the last remaining Hashton, was tied up a few feet from the flames on a custom wooden spit Luther himself had crafted.

As he handed Luther the staff, which was long and heavy and knotted, Trent bowed. Luther had never required him to bow, but he was pleased when it happened, usually in times of seriousness, when things were heavy. Luther smirked, then smiled ear to ear and dismissed Trent, who reclaimed his place in the circle of men surrounding Christina.

Trent thought Luther appeared magnificent in that moment. He was a tall man, and bigger than most, but not the dull type. There was a glowing intelligence in his eyes that seemed to complement his long, blond-red hair when he was animated. The light of the fire shone his rich and glistening skin and the stern expression on his face commanded respect.

“For tonight,” Luther continued, “we have justice at our fingertips! The final obstacle removed!” Hoots and hollers from the small crowd of men, who all secretly knew Luther was a few cards short of a full deck, but felt the cause was good if their lives improved. They were all tired of being poor while the Hashtons lived with abundance, worry-free. “Too long, have we waited. Too much, have we given. And too little, have we received. That all changes tonight. Right now.” He boomed the staff against the cave floor repeatedly. “You! My men. My warriors! You have procured the very thing that can end this curse.” He threw his hands up in the air almost comically and shot them to his side, palms up, toward the spit. “Christina. The very last of the Hashton clan—the same clan that has been taking your rights and your money for generations!” The men clapped, yelled obscenities, grabbed their crotches and made jeering, teeth-laden faces toward the condemned young woman.

The group had been responsible for the deaths of three other Hashtons in the last five years, but those murders were different. One lost control in his car on the outskirts of town due to severed brake lines thanks to Gordon, who is the tire guy down at Tiny’s. Another ate poisoned soup at the restaurant where Craig worked as a bus boy. The third was taken out by Cliff the Vet and his rifle as Waldon Hashton walked into the bank for the last time one October evening. But Christina was special, Luther had said, and would require more of a sacrificial environment since she was the last of the bloodline. It sounded intriguing and almost magical to Trent.

Luther continued, and there was silence. “We are men of honor, men of pride, and men of grit. No more shall the people of this community be misled by the Hashton crooks. They have been in control for too long and have done too much damage to allow such a moment, such an opportunity, to pass in silence. No, tonight we fight back. And tonight... we win.”

The men cheered and ghouled again, this time with more fervor. One went as far as to unzip, remove himself, and pee on the girl, who was tied up in such a way she couldn’t see him. The men howled. Luther stood on his makeshift stage of large rocks and long weeds and beamed, hands on hips. His eyes were fiery orbs. Trent studied him, awe and comfort flooding in like waters in a storm drain. There was fear as well, of course, and shame, but those only seemed to comfort him further; if anyone could pull this off, Luther could.

Christina, who was rag-gagged on top of being tied up suspended, fought against the ropes, creating painful-looking, shiny red marks on her wrists and ankles. Trent sympathized, but knew it was for the best. After all, and Luther had said it himself, her family aimed to destroy the tiny town they loved so much, turn it into a corporation of sorts. He and the other men were thankful that Luther had what it took to set the uprising in motion. Trent’s gaze was on the incapacitated girl, and not-so-pure thoughts had begun whirling round in his head when Luther pounded his staff again on the rock stage, snapping him to the present moment.

“Friends, warriors, we must gather now in earnest and in silence, for the Rite of the Feast begins!” He motioned toward the spit. “Get her on the fire! We can't eat if she isn't cooked!”

Three men—boys, really, in dopey-looking and dirty, adult bodies—with knives got to work slicing off the woman’s gown, leaving her only in white cotton panties that were now stained yellow. Her pale skin was wet with sweat, her ample breasts askew because of the angle she hung on the wood. For the first time in a long time, Trent felt a stirring from his crotch, a familiar tug of the fabric there, a buzzing that was electric.

But then the contraption was rolling toward the fire with two men on either side, Luther yelling ferociously about damned souls and karmic retribution and the beginning of a new way. Dread and fascination crowded Trent’s mind, and any stirrings that may have begun down below ceased as he watched the men park Christina over the flames and then jump away into the shadows. As she burned, writhing and screaming through the gag while her body thrashed violently against the pain, no one said a word. They all simply stared on, unable to do anything else. And then her body relaxed and she stopped moving and hung there limp, burning meat on hooks made of rope.

“Behold!” Luther shouted, breaking the silence. “The last of the Hashtons, dead before your very eyes! Don the wine! Light the Mary Jane! We celebrate our freedom!” His arms were out wide and his smile showed too many teeth, as if he were a magician who had just performed a mind-bending trick. But there had been no trick, Trent understood. There was only a girl, burned to death while a bunch of angry and dangerous men who lacked backbones gazed on, cheering, throwing things, shouting swears.

Trent watched as they passed around wine, cigarettes and joints; watched as the girl’s skin blistered, popped, then ran off her body like liquid. His stomach tightened. The stench was awful, especially in such close quarters. Wait, was that music? Trent scanned the cave. Yes! In the corner, a full band of five or six members in bright and striped suits, some playing horns and others strings while the drummer pounded out a droning beat. But, how was this possible? The cave was deep but couldn’t have been but fifteen or twenty feet across. Now, in the wake of the festivities, it showed gigantic.

In the chaos, as the fire roared and the music played and the men shouted so loudly words were lost to the ether, their grimaced faces appeared even more dramatic and more grotesque, increasing Trent’s unease. The din grew louder and the shadows grew longer, more fierce, as the last of Christina sloughed away into the fire, leaving behind charred wood and dripping, sizzling ooze.

Luther again boomed his staff against the stage and the riot softened. He was smiling. “Oopsie! I guess we’ll have to order out tonight. It seems our splendid Hashton dish is a wee bit overcooked.” He laughed then, hands over his stomach and mouth comically wide, and the crowd soon followed, escalating into fits of madness. Some laughed so hard they cried. Others simply cried, losing themselves. Two of the men disrobed and cut themselves with bone knives and rubbed their blood onto one another, moaning and sighing. Luther walked off stage.

Trent was looking for him in the ever-growing crowd, looking for anything representing sanity that might quell the riot, when he felt a hand on his shoulder and wheeled around. The hand belonged to an older man dressed all in white who had a stern face and soft features. He seemed to have a glow all his own, like the fire in Luther’s eyes, only it felt safe to Trent, it felt warm and good. “I wouldn't bother,” the stranger said, removing his hand from Trent’s shoulder. “It’s too late. Look around. These people aren't going to be convinced. Luther won't be convinced. You’ll only show yourself as weak if you intervene.”

In spite of the man’s outwardly safe appearance, Trent wasn't sure he trusted him. He wasn't sure he trusted any of this. Anxiety and dread overshadowed all other emotion. “What makes you say that?”

The stranger nodded toward the fire. “I mean, the girl’s dead. The time for a dissenting opinion would have been before she melted. Don’t you think?”

Trent nodded and paused before he spoke. “So, what to do now, then? I… I didn’t know it would be like this. I don’t know how to fix this.”

The man smiled, shook his head. “Nothing to do then, is there? It is done. An entire bloodline in ruins and nobody to run the town. You've done it now, Trent.”

“Done what? I've done what?” Panic was setting in.

“Exactly what every other vile creature in this room has done, other than celebrating.” The stranger shrugged, held up a glass of whiskey. “Might as well have a drink or nine, my boy. It’s the last night. For you, and for every one of these black souls. You don’t fully understand what’s happened here. If you did, you’d have killed yourself by now. But, since you haven't done that, you might as well join them.” The man’s smile disappeared as he handed Trent the glass. “Because after all, Trent, you are them.”