The Burning Man

The fire burns low while the night stretches deeper around the canyon. I sit beside the embers wrapped in a blanket from the Airstream with the revolver resting across my lap and my third beer hanging forgotten in one hand. The desert cold has settled in fully now, sharp enough to sting exposed skin.

Somewhere above the canyon walls, moonlight spills silver across the ridgelines while the darkness between them remains pitch black. I have been listening to the hills for nearly two hours. Nothing moves anywhere beyond the firelight anymore, and the canyon has gone completely silent around the camp.

I no longer hear footsteps crunching against rock, distant laughter drifting through the hills, or voices echoing somewhere out in the darkness, and somehow that silence feels even worse. Exhaustion presses slowly against me despite the adrenaline still humming through my nerves.

My eyelids grow heavier each time the fire crackles softly beside me. I tell myself I am only resting my eyes for a second. Then the screaming starts. The sound rips through the canyon hard enough to jolt me fully awake before I even realize I started drifting off.

The screaming is unmistakably human, and the voice belongs to a man somewhere out in the desert darkness. Agony tears through every word hard enough to echo across the canyon walls and rip me fully awake in an instant. I am already on my feet before the second scream echoes across the hills.

The sound comes from somewhere farther down the canyon behind me, back toward the highway. Orange light flickers faintly against the rocks in the distance now that I know where to look. There is a fire burning out there. “Jesus Christ,” I whisper.

I grab the revolver and flashlight instinctively before running toward the road..The canyon walls throw my footsteps back at me while loose gravel crunches beneath my boots. The screaming continues intermittently ahead of me, weaker each time. The smell of burning flesh reaches me before the fire itself fully comes into view. I slow immediately.

The fire burns in the middle of the canyon beside the road, bright enough to paint the rocks orange beneath the moonlight. For one horrible second my brain refuses to process what I am seeing. Then it finally does. The gas station owner hangs nailed to a wooden cross driven deep into the ground, crucified.

The flames crawl slowly up his legs and torso while smoke pours into the desert sky around him. His skin blackens and splits beneath the firelight. One eye has swollen completely shut. The other fixes on me the moment I step closer. “Oh God,” I breathe.

His lips tremble when he sees me. “I’m sorry,” he rasps weakly. The words barely sound human anymore. The smell is unbearable up close.

I **** myself nearer anyway. “Who did this?” I ask.

He coughs violently, smoke spilling from his mouth. “They know,” he whispers. “They know you’re here.”

The flames crackle higher around the base of the post. He starts screaming again, not loudly this time, but weakly, like his body no longer has enough strength left for real pain. “Please,” he gasps. “Please finish it.” My stomach twists hard enough to hurt. For a second I almost cannot move. Then I draw the Colt.

The revolver feels impossibly heavy in my hand while I raise it toward his head. His remaining eye stays fixed on mine the entire time. “I’m sorry too,” I whisper. The gunshot explodes through the canyon. The screaming stops instantly. Silence crashes down afterward except for the crackling flames.