Sun Poisoning

(Author note: the following is potentially disturbing.)

“The sun is stuck in the sky.”

The anchor for channel 4 said it with a hysterical chuckle through the screen. The man’s hair a shaggy mess of brown reeds, dropping down to a five-o’clock shadow that was getting closer to midnight. Dread sat atop each word he uttered, riding them through the airwaves and into the ears of every single person tunning in. Including the family of three currently tied to the chairs of their kitchen table. Everyone except for The Burnt Man, who stood on top of their table, raising the volume on the TV.

“It started to rise five days ago and has...hahaha..it has not fucking set! Hahaha!” 

The whole world had been under the impression that the laws of physic were like unbreakable, titanium stitches that held the fabric of the universe together. Bonds that kept the specter of chaos locked away in its dark, dank bedroom with a twin-sized mattress and no window. But The Burnt Man knew better. When the sun stopped, the flames had once spoken. They whispered secrets hot against his ears. See, The Burnt Man knew. He knew that, like all things, those cosmic stitches could be turned to ash. And when they did, chaos would spread faster than cock-rot in a Roman bathhouse. 

The Burnt Man knew. 

“HA! Oh, I know! I know! I know!” Spittle dripped down his scarred lips as he danced on the table. 

“Yyyyy...yes,” the father man said. “Yes, you know. You know it all. So please, let us go.” 

The Burnt Man looked at the father man with the one eye the flames had left him. 

“Go, go, go. You will!” The Burnt Man opened a bottle of kerosine and poured out the contents on the father man’s head. “To the flames, you go! Hi ho, hi ho, off to the flames you go!  

Father man thrashed about in his chair, like a little fishy with no water to feed its gills. Grease filling in the cracks of the suburban haircut on the father man’s fat head. A smile crackled onto The Burnt Man’s leathered face. Father man started to cry. So did the mommy. But their little girly girl looked at The Burnt Man. Fire in her eyes. FIRE!

“The spark!” He shouted. “You got the fire in ya, dontcha?” The Burnt Man leaned over the little girl. He could smell ash in her hair. “You do! You’re like me!” 

“I’m not like you, and I’m not a scared of you!” She spat at The Burnt Man. 

He didn’t like that. 

“Don’t do that, little sister.” He shook his head. “No, no, no. I don’t like that.”  

She spat again. “I don’t like you!” 

“Fire! I think she has the fire!” The Burnt Man turned to the father and mommy. He flicked his wrist, and a box of matches slid into his other hand. “Let’s see if the flames thinks so, too!”  

“No, please,” the mommy said. “Let her go, do whatever you want to us, but let her go!” 

“It’s not up to me, oh no!” The Burnt Man scratched the itchy hole where his other eye used to sit. “But the flames...the flames will know!” He dropped the bottle of kerosine and took out a matchstick. 

“The police will find you, you...monster!” Father man was all fake tough. Fake flames. Fake fire. Nothing but an ember.

“Monster?” The Burnt Man hated that word. “Monsters are evil.” He struck the match against the box. A flame jumped to life on the stick, flickering all the colors of Fall. “I am fire. Fire burns good. Fire burns bad. Fire burns all.” 

The Burnt Man dropped the spark of life onto the table and watched the fire spread around the kitchen like Virginia Creepers on speed. First, they crawled up the father man. He screamed. Then the mommy. She screamed. And finally, the little one with the spark. At first, she didn’t yell, and The Burnt Man wanted oh so badly to hug his new sister, but then—

“Ahhhhhhhhhh!” It was a squeak among the crackling of the fire, but he heard it. 

“Oh, well,” The Burnt Man shrugged as all their screams filled the air like a sweet, schizophrenic orchestra playing just for him. The Burnt Man jumped off the table. “Wrong, wrong, I guess I was wrong,” he felt the heat kissing his body with a thousand steaming lips. “She has no fire.” 

It took only ten minutes for the rest of the house to be engulfed by the arms of his master, and The Burnt Man savored every moment. The sun radiated at his back as he walked through the heat and into the sun’s embrace. It burned brighter than them all.

It was two o’clock in the morning.   

DAY 6 

“It’s the end of the world as we—”

Detective Grayson slammed his fist against his work phone. It was a little after two o’clock in the morning. Grayson was tired. He was tired of being tired. Sleep was a precious commodity these days, and he’d give up his retirement to just get a couple of nights’ worth of the good stuff. But no, not tonight. Though it was well after midnight, you couldn’t tell by looking up at the sky. That god-forsaken sun was right where it had been for the last six days, sitting in its midday position, flipping a cancerous middle finger at the world. 

“Yeah, fuck you, too,” Grayson mumbled as he walked to his unmarked cruiser.

The drive to the crime scene was slowed by abandoned cars, bikes, and trash that had begun to claim the roads. When Grayson heard it was the end of days, he had no idea it’d take less than a week for it to start looking the part. It had only taken three days for the world to fall apart. Three days in Grayson’s book, at least. That’s when the fires started. 

So many of them, everywhere in town. More homes burnt down on that third day than Grayson knew existed in the town. And in each one, more than just the homes had been eaten by the flames. He wasn’t investigating acts of arson; they were executions. Detective Grayson had a serial killer on his weary hands. 

Lucky, fucking me. 

Grayson eased the cruiser into the driveway of the home. He got out and shook the weariness from his head like a dog drying itself off after it took a dip. What I’d do to be swimming in an ice-cold pool right no—

“Mornin’, Grayson.” Some beat cop tipped his hat at Grayson as he walked past the yellow tape.

“Is it?” Grayson grumbled, the stench of smoke heavy in the air. “Could’ve sworn it was the afternoon.” 

The beat cop looked confused, “Sorry, sir, just you know...small talk.” Come on, Grayson, he’s just a kid.

“I’m an old prick, don’t mind me,” Grayson slicked what was left of his thinning hair back. “But do me a favor and keep everyone out until I’m down with the CSU.” 

“Yes, sir,” Kid-cop replied. He even threw Grayson a salute. 

Wonderful.

Grayson’s boots were covered in ash by the time he stepped foot what remained of the kitchen. A faint whiff of roast pork assaulted his nostrils. It made him sick because he knew where that smell came from but not because it smelled bad. You’re fucking sick. You know that? But then again, who isn’t? Right as rain, Grayson looked up to see two charred corpses lying in the ashes. Adults by the size of what was left of them. Carrie from the CSU was already marking the areas around the body and taking pictures of everything. Grayson found it funny how they were all still trying to do their jobs as if the world hadn’t been turned upside down. But then again, pretending to be okay is a lot easier than admitting you’re not. 

“Grayson, a pleasure to see you again,” Carrie said, without even looking up to see who it was that had walked in.

“And it’s a pleasure to know that you’re still a damn awful liar,” Grayson carefully stepped around the bodies and into Carrie’s view. “It’s never a pleasure to see me.” 

“That’s true...usually,” Carrie looked up. “But we’ve got a lead this time. A live one.”

“You’re shitting me?” Grayson might as well have cut his jaw off and put it on the floor so that he could pick it up at that moment. “Where’s the witness?”    

“The ICU being treated for 3rd-degree burns all over her body,” Carrie’s facade of content dropped for a moment. “It’s not pretty, Grayson. She’s a little girl. Not even ten yet.” 

“Jesus Christ,” he said and meant it. “Is she able to talk?” 

“They think by tomorrow the pain will be manageable enough to take her meds down a bit,” Carrie brushed a red strand of hair from her eye. “But again, Grayson, it’s bad.” 

DAY 7

Grayson had spent the rest of the night—or day—at the hospital in the girl’s room. Once again, the specter of sleep taunted him with a box of chocolates before opening it up to reveal a flaming piece of shit. No rest for the weary, I guess. Still, it wasn’t as bad as it had been the past two nights. Grayson had a lead now. It might just be a bread crumb, but he hoped it could lead him to whoever was burning the town down. 

“Whee...where, where, where am I?” A little voice squeaked. 

Grayson turned to the girl. She was wrapped in bandages from head-to-toe, stained red and yellow from blood and puss. How could I be so selfish to think what happened to this child could be good for me? I’m a fucking monster. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” He tried to sound warm. Not his strong suit. “You’re safe and being taken care of in a hospital.” 

“Hospital?” The girl asked. “Are my parents okay, too?”

“They…” God, he hated this part. “They didn’t make it, but we’ve got in contact with your aunt, who is on the way.” 

“Oh...oh, oh.” The girl said, flatly, as if he had just told her the weather forecast. 

“Now, I’m a police officer, and I want to find the bad person who did this to you. Anything you can tell me will help.”

“Like what?” 

“Well, can you tell me what he looked like? Anything that stood out about him that’s recognizable?” He asked. 

The girl tilted her head and looked at Grayson for the first time. 

“What did he look like?” Her hand shot up toward her face before Grayson could react. 

She ripped the bandages off, the sound like screeching seranwrap. The girl’s face was one giant mass of scars. It looked like someone dipped her in warm caramel and didn’t let it dry properly. Wrinkles and folds of knotted skin that no child should ever bear. It was awful, but this girl wasn’t crying; she was smiling. 

“He looked like me!” She shouted, giddy as if it were her birthday. “Yes, yes, yes! He’s The Burnt Man. I’m The Burnt Man!” The girl leaned over toward Grayson. “Soon, you will be too! Oh, yes! Yes! Yes! I see the fire in you! I think I do!” 

Grayson backed away, tripping on the chair behind him. He fell on top of the TV remote, and it turned on to channel 4, where an anchor Grayson had never seen before was looking gravely into the camera.

“It’s Day 7 of the solar phenomena, and while that has taken a majority of our air-time, there are now reports around the world of mass arson. The incidents seemed unrelated at first, but as they continue to rise in numbers, new evidence has shown a clear link between these international events. IT appears as though the culprits who have been apprehended all share two things in common: they call themselves “The Burnt Man,” and—Please be advised the following images are quite graphic—they all look like this.” 

An image popped on the screen. 

It was a face. 

The same face that was currently laughing behind him. 

Grayson started to laugh, too.