February 24th, 2018

  Appalachian nights are a special kind of dark. The way the canopy soaks up the moonlight, only letting scant beams of ghastly white through. The low fog rising from the earth, the way the humidity clings to your skin. The katydids singing that rhythmic, droning tune. To some, it's the sound of their backyard. To some more unfortunate souls, it's a dirge. Either way, going out in the woods at night isn't the smartest thing to do. But for Saffron, it was her part time job.

  Food delivery. A rather dangerous job nowadays, but the pay is good and the hours are more flexible than you'd think. There's some serious money in delivering piping hot food to strangers. World’s a dangerous place, and people don’t go outside any more than they have to. And thus, paying someone else to take on all the danger became the popular option. The mandatory tipping section on the GrubCenter app starts at twenty-five dollars. The reason why it's so expensive, is that 2,404 people have been injured or died this year alone. Hasn't even hit summer. Most of the aberrations and striders are still in hiding.

  Saffron was on her fifth delivery of the day. Normally, she wouldn't take a delivery in the middle of bum fuck nowhere that doesn't even have a road. Not a paved road, not a dirt road. No road at all. There is just a poorly maintained, meter-wide foot trail. But a five-grand tip for delivering a few pizzas? That was too good to pass up, even in an area where the Klan was still very alive and active. So now she's carrying fourteen large pizzas in two orange insulated bag, her boots crunching down on dry leaves. A cold breeze drifted through the trees, knocking a few more dead leaves off of their branches. As they drifted down to the forest floor, she carried on in the dark. It was a tad unsettling, hearing random patches of dry leaves shuffle ever so slightly as a new compatriot was added to their ranks. All around her, the minute rustling of leaves became a new instrument in the empty song reverberating in the night.

  The client lived about a mile and a half inside of thick forest. 234 Calaboose Drive. It's a rather secluded property. A few wells, maybe half an acre of solar panels, and about twelve greenhouses. Seven houses dotted the property, with an old church sitting in the middle. It looked like a small town, or a compound of some sort. Even had it's own graveyard. As she continued on, the darkness spread about Saffron now had a pinhole of orange light. It's dim glow grew with her every step down the ill beaten path. The wind died down, and the katydids seemed to step up their game. The bugs were louder now, their singing saturated the forest like water in a towel. It felt like they were singing for her.

  She closed in on fifty meters, and a musky smell made itself known. Weed, certainly, with an undercurrent of burnt hair. The glow was now identifiable. It was a bonfire in a clearing, her large flames sashaying from side to side. Even at a distance, it was hypnotizing. She continued to walk towards the fire, assuming the buyer would be close by. As Saff entered a clearing, she could get a picture of what was going on.

  Seven bare figures stood near the fire, sweat rolling down their naked bodies. They were singing something, in a unified and haunting harmony. It wasn’t English, but by them occasionally saying “requiem”, Saffron assumed it was Latin. A hooded figure on the opposite side of the clearing had what clearly appeared to be a lamb hanging by its hind legs. It's throat was already slit, droplets of blood draining down into a five-gallon bucket. The bonfire itself looked normal. Logs arranged in a pyramid, the burning human body heaped atop the whole affair, A pile of wood set aside to keep it burning, and the naked women and men singing around it.

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  About thirty meters from the bonfire, five dark picnic tables sat in a murky haze of smoke. Marijuana burned like incense, bowls of flower and glass bongs sat at the center. The people sitting at the tables were wearing dark, hooded cloaks that hid their features. One got up from their seat, and walked towards Saffron. As the figure closed in, more of their appearance came to light. Under the hood, the face of a middle aged woman shined in the autumnal night. She was blonde, and just a tad shorter than average, maybe 5’5. She had a... maternal figure, cloth drawing taut around her hips and chest.

  “You alright hun? I hope the walk wasn’t too hard on you, carrying all that.” The hooded woman had a distinct southern accent. “If you could bring those pizzas over there, that would be wonderful.” With that she turned around, walking back to the tables.

  Saffron obliged, following behind her. The smoke was thicker at the tables, drawing a few involuntary coughs from her. A few of the hooded figures chuckled, and a hand hit her between the shoulder blades thrice, more a gesture of good will than an earnest effort to stop her from coughing. She sat the pizzas down on a table, finally letting her arms rest. Saffron’s shaking hands came up to undo the Velcrow on the bags, and put all fourteen pies on the table in front of her.

  “You’re a lifesaver. No clue what we would have done without this delivery.” The blonde woman said. “We were so caught up getting the funeral pyre together, we didn’t even have time to cook a meal!”

  “This is a funeral?” Saffron asked, kneading her palms together to get a bit of feeling back into them.

  “Oh yeah. We run thus organization by taking funds from wealthy investors, and in exchange we give them a cushy, slow life out here.” She said without missing a beat. “Community, gardening, swimming, games, smoking, hunting heretics down, and ritual orgies on a solstice. Our founder just made up a faux-religion, and we follow it. It’s pretty simple.”

  “And the pyre is… for a wealthy contributor?”

  “Bingo! We send them off in flames, with a feast and merrymaking. Make sure they go out in a blaze of glory.”

  The man from the far side of the clearing drags the lamb and bucket of blood towards the fire. He dunks his hand into the blood, and palms the face of a naked singer. One by one, he christens the seven in lamb’s blood, a palm print of crimson now adorning their faces. And with a shout, he tosses the blood onto the bonfire, shortly followed by the lamb itself. With that, the singers finally stopped, pulling away from the fire and putting their long cloaks back on.

  “And what was the lamb stuff for?” Saffron asked.

  “For De’Kuestor, our god of death and the afterlife. Normally, we’d eat what’s leftover from the flames, but since it’s a pyre, we’ll just burn the whole thing until the One Below will take his fill.”

  “Huh…” Saffron stares into space for a moment, letting the words really sink in. She stood up. “Well it’s been nice, but I’ve got to go.”

  “You aren’t interested in joining? We can swear you in right now, no time like the present right?” Every single soul wearing a hood was facing Saffron. Those who were facing away from her were looking as well, but they didn't turn their torso and hips, or side eye her with a turned head. Instead, the necks of the followers facing away from her turned like owls, impossibly contorted and twisting the cloth of the cloaks like rotini. Their eyes reflected the golden hue of the flames, three blood anointed faces standing out with their crimson red sheen. They waited silently for her answer.

  Saffron took a breath through her teeth. “Y-Yeah I would, but I’ve got another delivery to make. You know how it is this time of year…” Slowly, the heads twisted back to their normal orientation, looking away from her.

  “Okay, but feel free to come back any time. You’re always welcome here.” The older woman said that in earnest, but her eye contact was a bit too strong. She pushed a business card and a few extra hundreds into Saffron’s hand. And with that, Saffron took her leave, carrying two empty bags.

  I have got to get a normal fucking job. She thought to herself.