The Prophet’s anger was a bright red. He could see the pulses of color radiating from his hands and arms as he gripped the steering wheel of the white Ford Taurus. He had just left the Schofield residence. It sat empty and in shambles. The family had been warned. Another betrayal at the hands of the former Chosen, but he would find them. With the Father on his side, he was invincible.
But while he worked out a way to track down Eleanor and the children, he also knew that he needed to acquire another of the slaves for use in the ritual. He needed five. One for each point of the pentagram.
Unlike Schofield, whose eccentricities when choosing the sacrifice had always been an annoyance but one that he had indulged, the Prophet didn’t care to know the ignorant piece of meat before abducting her. He didn’t feel the need for any type of dramatics beyond the ritual. No Circle A signatures scrawled on the walls. Just another meaningless slave to be sacrificed to the Father. Nothing more, nothing less. The dark ones would lead him to the next sacrifice, as it should have been all along.
He popped another piece of blotter paper treated with LSD into his mouth, to ensure that he could see the world as it truly was without the hindrance of the mortal coil. He sat there for a few moments. The snow falling all around him was lit from within like the small bioluminescent creatures living in the darkest parts of the ocean. The air was heavy as if it had become a liquid, and it smelled like rage. The suburban street swelled and contracted around him. It wasn’t that the houses had necessarily changed. It was more that they were alive, that they were breathing.
Then a section of the shadows coalesced into an oily amorphous figure. The figured moved away from him leaving tracer lines of black behind. The Prophet placed the Taurus into drive and then tried his best to keep the vehicle between the glowing and undulating lines on the road as he pursued the dark one down the street.