Embers rose into the indigo sky and formed shifting constellations against the black smoke. She wiped the sweat from her brow before staking the tines of her pitchfork into the cracked soil beneath her feet and rested her right arm on the shaft and her chin on the back of her wrist and watched. The pounding on the wooden walls of the chapel percussed the crackling wood but they had grown less frequent as the fire raged on. The doors shook against the metal bar wedged between their handles and the woman prayed they would hold until the fire cleansed the souls of those within.

The rag she pulled over her mouth and nose did little to stifle the smell. God, the smell. Pervading the night air over the lesser traces of kerosene and mildew the noxious scent of dead and dying flesh invaded her nostrils before settling on her tongue. She could taste the burnt meat and was forced to imaging herself ripping into the charred muscle and sinew as a carrion bird too impatient, too starved to wait for the flesh to cool. The thought lingered in the back of her throat and a cough racked her frame.

Blood ran down her fingertips. The wound was worse than she thought. She rolled up her left sleeve and lifted her elbow to look at her forearm. Dead black flesh already bordered the two crescent marks left by her brother’s teeth ripping into her skin. She would need to find a way to cut off the arm soon. For now, she let the blood flow.

to be continued...