The Work of the Arsonist by S.C. WIlder
It was not the best day, nobody could change that. There was an eeriness about the town, something was coming, something the townsfolk had expected for a while now.
On the eastern side, what had had a grip on the small town, had begun to make itself prominent. A firetruck pulled up to the scene, to the sacred temple of knowledge. It’s usually blaring alarm was oddly silent. What was even more disturbing were the men that came out of the truck; they wore the usual firefighter uniforms, but their faces were buried in hazmat suits, disguising their eyes behind the black lenses. Where was their humanity? I then noticed that the firetrucks were not the same as I had originally thought? I was struggling with a moment of recognizance when I realized they were not red and yellow but a scarring orange and black, the colors I imagine are those of brutal Death.
One of them pulled out the firetruck’s keys and pressed a button. Sirens were activated, and even with the noise filling the air, this was the tensest the town has ever felt, well in my lifetime anyway. It’s hard to forget those blaring noises. A lot of people rushed out of the library, myself included who had been watching the entire event unfold. Our curiosity took us outside, to which one of the people in hazmat suits (man or woman I couldn’t tell you) guided us away from the building. As we were walking, they were setting up a boundary of orange tape and traffic cones. We were made to stand outside the boundary. Some of us went to our cars and drove away, while the others stayed behind to see what was going to unfold. More people were led outside, away from the building. Two more firetrucks of the same aesthetic came up to the scene, to which the firefighters temporarily broke the barrier to grant them access.
One of the firetrucks was much bigger than the other one, the idea of some complete package. The other one was much smaller, holding more resemblance to an ambulance rather than what it was intended to be. More people in the uniform and hazmat masks got out of the back of the ambulance. From the bigger truck, a couple others began to surround the neatly positioned hose.
There was one of those firemen, his mask completely off, walking out of the library. It was a tall man of blonde hair and blue eyes capable of striking fear. His face was clean shaven, making his expression of disappointment even more apparent. He went up to the men surrounded by the hose and said a few words. I remember seeing his mouth move, but I’m not at all skilled in the art of reading lips.
One of the men next to the hose began to move his head as if nodding no. He started pointing fingers and before anything, there was an array of movement. Positions began to change and one of the firemen began to take the hose into the library. We didn’t see the contents from outside, but out of nowhere the stench of gasoline intensified.
It then hit me, I had not seen Lawrence, the librarian. I had seen all the other townsfolk walk out, either alongside me or much later. This particular character was nowhere to be found.
Was he still inside?
The fireman came back out with the serpent-like hose. When he was completely outside, the others helped organize the hose, putting it back in place.
Five minutes later, the ambulance back doors opened once again. One last man came out in a complete hazmat suit that looked almost armored. The full hazmat suit was black, with orange gloves and the mask had lenses that were orange, hiding his eyes well. On his back he had a massive black flamethrower. He set his feet down on the ground, making a rough sound; his boots were heavy.
Slowly he walked inside the library, everybody watched.
He was inside for a minute, before everything seemed to unfold. The town’s sacred temple of knowledge, the history of mankind was set a flame. Black smog leaked out of every crevice in the building as flames began to eat the sweet fruit inside. From behind me, I could hear the little one’s sniffle and cry. I turned my head to see young mothers with their arms folded across their chest, with looks of sadness. The men wore faces of disappointment. We were witnessing an offense, a great murder. What was happening to us? Where was the Saint we knew as Lawrence?
The sun, then, began to set with everything we had ever loved burning brighter than never before. Out came the Beast that wielded the Flaming Sword. He held it behind his back, and in his hand was perhaps the only thing that half-heartedly survived the catastrophe. It was a book with a dark red cover, decorated with the sacred, golden cross.
S.C. WIlder is a student of literature from Hollywood, Florida. He comes from a background of Chilean heritage. At the moment, he is in the process of making plans to travel the world.
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