Scarlet sunrise (standard:horror, 914 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Apr 06 2011	Views/Reads: 2853/0	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Is a sun worshipper about to have his beliefs shattered?

The boy was terrified, his eyes conveying fear like that he had never
known. He was four years old, and tied to a steel chair, a gag around 
his mouth, his tearful eyes staring at the man who stood by the doorway 
of the shed with a 7inch wildcat bowie knife, looking at the child with 
curiosity.  He had killed before, and knew he would this time. He 
preferred them as young as possible because they were more innocent, so 
a four-year old may have committed sins, and if so, could not be called 
pure. Yet, time was running out, and at midnight tonight, his blood had 
to be shed, and he knew there was no time to abduct another child. He 
hoped the sun would be pleased. 

The garden shed was situated in the back-yard of a typical semi-detached
house, high hedges on three sides blocking out curtain twitching nosy 
neighbours. They didn't, however, block-out the cross-hair from a rifle 
from a police marksman situated on the roof of the house next door. He 
could see the child through the grimy glass, but only glimpses of the 
man. 

Other police were dotted around the house. They were convinced they had
got the killer who murdered a baby or child every seventy-two days. The 
boy had had a mobile phone, his mother giving into his demands even at 
that age. When it was discovered by the man, he had tied up the boy and 
driven it two miles away to throw in a canal. It was too late by then, 
it had been tracked to the house when it was in his coat pocket, and 
the man arrived back, closely followed by the police who were waiting 
to enter. They were hesitant because if the man knew they were there, 
he could easily kill the child before anybody had a chance to do 
anything, so for the moment, the sniper was their best option. 

Kirlian, as he had called himself, was 41 years-old, bald through
choice, and sported tattoos over his head and body. He usually didn't 
wear any tops, even outside in cold weather, and had a reputation 
locally as slightly odd. 

He avoided speaking to people as much as he could, and spent most of his
days planning his next murder, and worshipping the Earth's nearest 
star. He was the last person with a bloodline link to the Mayan sun 
worshippers, and believed that in order for it to keep shining, to keep 
rising every morning, it demanded the blood sacrifice of an innocent 
every seventy-two days. 

A small stove, and metal cup used by campers to heat water or make tea
was used to boil the blood out in the garden so the steam would rise 
into the air and make its way to the sun. He wasn't sure if it did, 
because it simply resembled normal steam, and if it was then it was 
doing so invisibly. 

In the age of reason, of skeptism, technology and science, he even
wondered himself sometimes as to whether he was doing right. He guessed 
he was keeping society running because it couldn't without a sun. 
Everytime his blade cut a child's throat, he wondered that if he 
didn't, would the sun still rise in the morning? He thought it wouldn't 
if the sacrifice wasn't completed. He also knew that he couldn't do it 
forever, and in order to keep it going he would need to convince 
somebody else to take the mantle, to believe what he did, to keep the 
sun shining. 

Detective Inspector Howard, 52, slightly over-weight with a drooping
moustache was sat in the back of an unmarked van outside the house, 
wearing a head-set with a direct link to the sniper on the roof. 
“Geoff, Geoff, can you hear me?” “Course I bloody can, what is it? I'm 
trying to concentrate here”. “Alright I'm just checkin'. Remember, 
first chance you get, take him out”. “Er, yes, thanks for that, cos' 
like, I'd forgot”. “You know what I mean,”. He took off the headset and 
lit up a cigarette. 

“Are you innocent?” Kirlian asked the child, but not really expecting an
answer. “Are you a sinner?”. He looked down at the clean blade, then 
walked behind the child, gripped his hair, pulled his head back and put 
the knife to his throat. 

On the peripheral of his hearing, a slight tap entered his consciousness
for a split second, rather like the sound a nail would make if it was 
tapped against glass. For another nano-second, he felt something above 
his right eye, rather like that same nail had been tapped against his 
fore-head. He was unaware, however, that the back of his head had been 
blown away. The knife clattered to the floor, and the child continued 
to cry. 

Howard was stood in the shed, looking at Kirlian's body, shaking his
head. The child had been taken into a police van. Other police were 
milling around the streets and in Kirlian's house. He left, trying not 
to think of all the paperwork this would mean. 

In the morning, he woke up and automatically knew that something was
wrong. It was still dark at 08.30am, and he quickly put on a dressing 
gown, went downstairs and out into the road. It was much colder than 
usual. Other people were out, and simply looking around. His widow 
neighbour across a rickety wooden fence looked at him and simply said: 
“The sun. It's gone”. 


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