“Elias isn’t the only one who loves this part,” Silas says, throwing his arm around my tense shoulders. “They tortured us for years. A couple of weeks is the least we can do.”
I nod along with his words, quietly planning our activities for tonight. First, we need to get inside.
“You got the security code?” I ask Silas, though the question is somewhat rhetorical—he always comes through.
“You know I do,” he says confidently, gleefully.
“Then let’s go,” I command, taking the lead—always in the lead, since we were boys, taking the brunt of the danger. I’ll gladly be first in the line of fire, even though we’re not broken youth anymore. Now we’re scarred men, thirsting for vengeance.
Marek starts humming a haunting, familiar tune as we skirt the house, looking for the back porch entrance. Iremember hearing his mother singing that lullaby to him when we were children. Before the Prophets killed her.
The lights turn on automatically, but it doesn’t faze us. We know the layout, the security measures, the occupants. It’s just the Prophet and his browbeaten wife, perhaps clueless about her husband’s atrocities. Their grown children left years ago, likely not spared the rod themselves.
Cole swaggers up to the door, playing with his lockpicks. I sigh and look heavenward, praying for patience, while Silas chuckles at my reaction. A few whisper-quiet clicks later, Silas goes inside first, tapping in the security code and disabling the alarm.
“Alright, brothers. Time to make Prophet Ezekiel feel watched by God again.”
Rowe and Logan cackle at my proclamation before veering off into the kitchen, ready to cause contained mayhem.
Ezekiel Moore’s house is quiet, clean, controlled. I look at the crosses and blessings displayed on the walls in almost every room. Nausea twists my stomach with a relentless grip. This domesticated faith is far from the perversion of it that he practices in secret.
I take out the small red spray paint can and shake it a few times, not worried at all that the Moores might wake up—if they do, we’ll have some fun.
With precise letters, I write on the wall, over the crosses, blessings, framed pictures. I take my time, ensuring every line is perfect.
Ash is what remains when sin is burned away.
Pleased, I stare at it for a moment. I wish I could see Ezekiel’s face when he comes downstairs to this in the morning.
I hear the hiss of a spray can behind me and turn around, curious to see what Silas is writing.
Confession is mercy. Resistance is punishment.
I laugh under my breath, even though these words still haunt my dreams.
Silas chose blue paint. Seeing it glisten in the silvery light from the windows reminds me of the woman I saw in the crowd. Blue hair. Fiercely intelligent eyes. Tight leather. I find myself biting my lip as my pants grow tight, constricting my hardening cock. I hope she comes back—I’d love to take her for a ride.
Moore’s study reminds me of the Prophet’s offices in our commune. Heavy lacquered wood everywhere, the smell of old books in the air. Moonlight glints off a framed picture, and I step closer to inspect it.
It’s Moore and what appears to be his congregation, smiling at a picnic, the local church in the background. But it’s the sight of the kids that makes my palms itch to wrap around sleeping Ezekiel’s throat and squeeze until his face turns purple. So many laughing kids, clinging to their parents, playing with each other. Were they spared the atrocities?
Carefully, I pick up the frame and hang it upside-down. The church steeple pointing to the ground makes the hair at the back of my neck stand up.
Perfect.
Cole pokes his head in after a while, tapping his long fingers against the doorframe.
“Ready, boss?” he asks quietly, carefully. We all walk on eggshells around each other during these first nights when there’s no real outlet for the violence.
“Yeah,” I answer, putting down Moore’s password book. “Let’s get out of here.”
We’ll be back soon enough.
???
I tear off a piece of bread and toss it in my mouth, shuffling the scrambled eggs on my plate. I like coming to the mess area for breakfast; it gives the carnies a chance to air any grievances they may have from the night before first thing in the morning. The first night in Marrow Falls went well, though—other than the Tilt-a-Whirl breaking down, but that’s standard procedure by now. We consider it a sign of good luck.
“El, did you see this?”
