This Was A Bad Idea

chaper 13 - the body

My scream rings through the air, a single note that sets off a series of bird screeches echoing through the atmosphere.

The thing I saw was an arm.

My breath stops and I can feel a second scream jerking through me, threatening to wrench past my lips. I can feel the sweat staining my shirt like tears. Someone is dead. I see the unmoving limbs sprawled out onto the dirt, wreathed in deep burns.

Sam. Oh god. Sam, she's dead-

I can feel the world rush out from underneath me, feel my lungs combust. My body has stopped working.

I stare at the masticated lumps of human flesh. Needle-pricks of pain arch up my spine, my arms. It sends a rush of cold fear through every pore of my skin. I can feel my breathing coming in shallow gasps, the air around me seemingly gone.

Something flickers across me. The body is pale, unlike the smooth hue of Sam's dark skin.

It's not Sam. It's someone else.

I see the remains of a blue shirt clinging to the torso, the patches of short brown hair clinging to what's left of his face. A boy is jammed into the entrance of the tunnel, half-splayed onto the concrete that borders the broken cover.

His legs hang downwards, obscured by the tunnel's gaping mouth. I see the crust of charcoal-colored burns that wreath his pale skin. I see what's left of his face. It's mutilated beyond recognition, the lips curving into a garish gash that shows patches of broken teeth.

I can barely make out the vacant look of his dead eyes through the sockets crusted over with charred flesh. I can see nubs of bone showing through his fire-blackened torso. My heartbeat slams into an erratic pounding that almost sends me crashing to the ground.

The limbs are twisted at broken angles, his arms splayed out onto the ground like he was trying to fly but fell before he could take to the air.

"Orion-" Elliot says, his words jamming to a halt when he sees the dead kid flopped over the entrance to the tunnel. I feel the bile coming up my throat, acidic and burning. I take a few steps away, finally crashing to the ground as everything comes out of me in a series of disfigured retches. I hear Xen scream behind me, her voice joined by Elliot's mangled shriek.

"Oh my god-" One of the officers yells. I can feel a shudder of pain spike through my entire body.

I rise from the ground, feeling the searing burn in my mouth. The taste of it invades my senses, obscuring everything. I try to get up, try to push my hands to the ground to lift my body off the ground. I only slip back down. My neck gives a sharp jerk. I'm staring straight at the charred remains of his face, his descemated features dripping like candle wax.

I let out another muffled shriek, scrambling on the vomit-slick dirt as the sobs suddenly take over my entire body.

Someone's crouching next to me, a hand on my shoulder, murmuring calm words that I can't hear. I feel a pair of hands lift me upwards, Officer Wilson hoisting me to my feet. I can't feel my legs, can't feel anything but the sounds of my heartbeat and the rushing of my blood in my ears.

It doesn't make sense, how fire could do that to someone. How the flames could reach so deep and destroy every inch of his skin. I turn away, trying to look at anything but the charred boy splayed out on the dirt.

"Oh my god-" Elliot murmurs. We all can't breathe, can't do anything but stand there, unable to move.

"Please, you need to calm down." Someone says. The voice of Officer Anderson drifts through me like smoke.

"We didn't do this." Xen stammers. "We would never do this." Her words sound like gushes of water riveting onto rocks, unable to stop. One of the officers is fumbling for his radio, the clasp caught on his belt before he can tug it free. I hear the whine of muffled static that emanates from it, hear his disjointed words calling out for backup. I can only stand there, arms crossed tightly across my body as if I'm trying to stop my chest from caving in.

"Orion, look." Elliot nudges my shoulder. I give a sharp shake of my head. He turns me around anyways, tilting my head towards a spot on the ground next to the dead kid. It's a piece of twisted metal, but I can still make out its shape. My heart pounds in my chest like a burning drum.

"It's a lock," I say softly. I bend down, careful not to touch it. It's the kind of lock that's on our lockers, the ones with the dials that spin at our fingertips. This one, what's left of it, has a red dial. The numbers swirl around it's singed center. The metal is mangled, twisted with fire. Corroded with flames.