After the girl was dead, Harrison Schofield recited the words and painted the symbols onto the walls of the storage container, always following the Prophet’s exacting specifications. Then he left the storage yard. He passed a beige and white guardhouse, where he had killed the nightwatchman, and made his way down the street to his blue Toyota Camry. The neighborhood was quiet and mostly industrial—a lumber yard, a block building that housed some produce supplier. It was painted bright green and red like a watermelon. The only residences were a row of cheap townhouses on the far side of the street. The storage yard had camera surveillance, but Schofield had disabled the unit. He was familiar with the model, an AVMS 2500. No remote backups, just a simple digital recording onto an onsite hard drive.
He walked past a row of cast-iron street lamps that looked down on him like angry sentinels, watching him, accusing him. He pulled open the car door and slid in behind the wheel. The Prophet was sitting in the passenger seat.
“How do you feel?” the Prophet said. His slow Southern drawl was deep and hypnotic. The words flowed from his mouth like warm honey.
Schofield knew what the Prophet wanted to hear, but it was also the truth. “I feel powerful. Stronger.”
“That’s good. Very good. Did you carry out the ritual exactly as I’ve taught you?”
In a more aggressive tone than he’d intended, Schofield snapped, “I know what I’m doing.”
Before he could react, the Prophet’s hand shot out and struck him hard across the left cheek. “Remember your place, boy. Once you ascend, you’ll sit at the right hand of the father and rule this world. But until then, I speak for the father. Don’t ever forget that. You show me respect at all times.”
Schofield felt like a little boy again. Visions of the Prophet striking him with a barbed whip flashed through his mind. He could almost feel the flesh tearing from his back. He hung his head low and mumbled a quiet apology.
The Prophet placed a hand on his shoulder. His tone softened. “It’s only a matter of days before the Darkest Night. We need your spirit to be ready for the ascension. You’re sure that you carried out the ritual properly?”
“I followed your instructions to the letter.”
“Good. Have you chosen the sacrifice for tomorrow night?”
Schofield nodded, and his pulse quickened with anticipation. “Everything’s in place.”
A sound of deep elation reverberated in the Prophet’s throat. The older man reached up and flicked on the Camry’s radio. The Rolling Stones boomed out of the speakers with Mick Jagger’s voice crooning Sympathy For The Devil.
Schofield put the vehicle in gear and pulled away from the curb. As they drove away, he wondered how he would feel in the morning when he looked into the eyes of his children.