Page 2 of The Burning

“Hello?” he shouted. “Who’s there?”

Footfalls sounded. He squinted into the darkness. Saw the shadowy figure walking toward him, a few yards away. The guy in the car, he realized.

“Dude, I don’t know what the fuck you’re up to, but you’d better get over here and cut me loose.”

The man reached him, his demeanor unhurried and resolute. His expression unperturbed. For the first time, Milan noticed the container in his hand, and a quiver of uneasiness roiled in his gut.

“What the hell are you doing?” Milan snarled.

No response.

“Cut me loose!” he shouted.

A second figure emerged from the shadows. Male. Long winter coat. Hat. Gloves. Similar container in hand. This time, Milan recognized it. Diesel fuel. Despite the chill, sweat broke out on his back.

“Let me go, man.” He’d intended the words as a command, but they came out like the squeak of a child. “Come on, dude.”

Without acknowledging him, the figure closest to him uncapped the container and began to pour onto the pallets. The stench of diesel fuel rose in a plume. An instant of disbelief descended and then terror lit up every nerve ending in his body. Adrenaline pumped like nitro through his veins. Milan struggled against his binds, jerked his arms hard, felt the wire cut into the flesh at his wrists. He twisted and bucked against whatever he was tied to. He tried to lash out with his feet, but his ankles were tethered.

Dear God in heaven, what was going on?

“What the hell are you doing?” he screamed.

Neither of the men looked at him. They worked in tandem. Thorough. Expressions calm and inscrutable. A methodical team set on completing their task.

The smell of diesel fuel mingled with the cold and filled Milan’s nostrils. Terror overwhelmed him. Bile filled his mouth. Afraid he might be sick, he spit.

“Are you nuts!” he screamed. “You can’t do this! Let me go!”

Milan strained against the binds, arching his back, twisting his head from side to side. He tried to yank his arms from the constraints, rocked his body left and right, grunting with the effort, putting his weight into it. Again, he tried to kick out his legs. If he could shove some of the wood away, he might have a chance.…

“Help me! Help! Someone!” His voice was the howl of a dog. Unrecognizable. Filled with the sound of terror.

Finished with their task, the men stopped working. They backed away, set down the containers. Unspeaking, they bowed their heads.

“Crazy fuckers!” Milan screamed. “Why are you doing this?”

The odor of diesel fuel hung heavy in the air. Milan looked down at the pallets, the kindling and wood piled around his feet. Fuel soaking into it. He knew what they were going to do. And for the first time in years, he prayed for God to help him.

“Please!” he shouted. “Someone! Help me! Help!”

One of the men started toward him. Milan spotted the lighter in his hand. “Wait! Wait! Don’t!”

A rush of panic at the click-scratch of the flint. Terror crawled over him as he took in the tiny flame. A thousand pins pricked his spine.

“Are you fucking nuts?” he screamed. “Don’t! Don’t!”

The man tossed the lighter. A faint clink as it struck the pallets. Shock and horror washed over him as it rolled and disappeared into the kindling. An instant of hope that it wasn’t going to ignite. An orange flicker. And then a whoosh! as the flames leapt.

“Dear God! God! No!”

Heat swept against his shins and rolled up his thighs. The smells of burning wood and fabric. The pain came like a branding iron against the front of his legs. Heat climbed up, seared his crotch and belly.

He smelled singed hair, felt fire against his face. In his mouth. His eyes. The horror of knowing what came next. Blind panic exploded inside him. He screamed, sucked in sparks. Lungs on fire. Spit boiling in his mouth. Too much pain to process.

His bowels released.

He howled in agony.