Page 119 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

flesh-eater’s mouth was little more than a portal to endless,
monstrous laughter, I could hear my father’s words clearly.
“To your feet, whelp! Kill with me! Kiiiilll!”
For the first time since his death—and outside of a
dream—my father killed by my side. Together, we conjured
blood and scream as surely as sorcerers. Death became the
air we breathed, and we were father and son once again—
unstoppable.
The calm that replaced the killing was deep and satisfying,
framing the moment and washing the cries of the dying from
the air. An unusually warm breeze made its way into the red
rooms of the restaurant, where bodies lay in piles, and the
distribution of spoiling blood and flesh made for a confusing
portrait of the moments preceding the gathered ruin. I drew
a deep breath and readied myself for reprisal as I opened
the front door and stepped outside. The city was almost
fused to the silence, as nothing remarked on the presence
of a population, much less one waiting to avenge its fallen
citizens. The breeze continued to play within the calm,
invisibly dancing across severed bodies and rolling in the
scent of the dead. It also carried with it the smell of smoke.
I looked to the north—a smoldering cyclone of smoke and
fire rose up in the distance. They had set my art aflame.
My father stood beside me, wearing the dead flesh-eater.
He directed his gaze to the distant fire and laughed like
wet thunder, further destroying the face through which he
spoke. “She’s calling to you, boy! Don’t make her wait!” He
placed himself into my outstretched hand, the corpse of the
long-dead cannibal collapsing to the ground. My forbearer’s
laughter still traveled the night, rattling the windows of the
silent city, no doubt rattling the courage of the things that
hid behind them. I would give them more than fear. Much
more.
My art had always been dismantled, redistributed,
cremated, buried—but its meaning had always drawn fear,
if not respect. Never had it been burned in spite. My hands
122 | Mark Anzalone