Marin's Dale

Two

With each successive crimson flash, Marin's Dale repopulated.

One by one, thin tentacles retracted from the nostrils of every positioned body. They curled up and then they shivered from sight, disappearing into the open sewers.  

The bodies were positioned as if props in a movie.

The crimson bulb flashed. As it went, the intervals between its luminous bursts became shorter and shorter, until the giant camera-like orb of red seemed an almost continual explosion of light. It blinded everything and ensconced everything and bled out all other visions like a deluge of blood.

A class of students sat before a teacher. All their eyes were closed as he stood at the front, arms folded across his chest, hands clasped near his waist. His eyes too were closed.

The students sat, as they always had. Exactly as they always had; the same ordinary humans they had always been. They looked as if they had never changed, as if nothing had happened; as if the entire day had been the blink of an eye. Now erased.

That is when the searing inhale hit. It sounded something similar to a tornado wailing, pulling all its tumultuous energy inward and whipping shards of glass. But there was no tornado, and the sky above Marin's Dale was a beautiful one. The red bulb was gone.

Inside the classroom, the students did not stir. And the inhale ended. Life breathed back into the world. Malcolm Ghulic's eyes sprung open.

"Good Morning, Children."

Every eye opened. The pupils and irises were gone. Nothing but blank white. Like eggshells. They spoke in unison:

"Good Morning, Father."

At the front of the class, a single seat was empty.