Firefly

PROLOGUE It felt so good to be back. He pulled the large sized latex gloves out of the well-worn, red duffel bag and snapped them onto his beefy hands. He did not hurry. He delighted in the ritual he'd been practicing for years and savored each moment, each step of his carefully planned operation. The small explosion from the wooden match head held his gaze for a few seconds before he bent down and touched the lit match to one of the six-hank braided trailings he'd set throughout the building. Making the fuses had been time consuming, yet integral to his success. The cloth, an old bed sheet, had been cut in precise dimensions — one inch wide, forty-eight inches long. Of this he'd made sure. Then, he'd begun the braiding process. A few times, he'd stopped to regard his work with a critical eye, but found that the trailings matched his standard of perfection. Each was then stuffed in separate sandwich bags, the ones with the zippered closure, leaving exactly eight inches of cloth poking out of the plastic. Finally, he'd measured two cups of gasoline, pouring them over the braided fuses. The cotton fibers drank it in greedily. Now, as he stood here in the abandoned old warehouse, watching the flame flicker down its intended route, he felt a slight sense of relief wash over him. He took great pleasure in knowing that his relief would soon be complete. Why was he back at this place in his mentality that forced him to strike the match? It had been years — too many to count — since he'd allowed himself the simple indulgence of lighting a cigarette for himself, much less set a building on fire. Yet like an alcoholic in need of a drink or a heroin addict in search of a fix, he'd lit it tonight, yearning for heat for his aching soul. He'd only wanted one little hit, a small taste of the wonder the spark provided. But seeing the flame, his taste for seeing and being responsible for a large, all-consuming conflagration turned a corner and had become insatiable, and he began looking for suitable trailing material to set more fires. Simultaneously, he cursed himself for being so weak and congratulated himself for being so smart. And he thought about them…the ones who had died at his hands and the ones who had been left to grieve. For a few minutes, he stood in wonder and watched as the blaze ate away at the timbers. He loved everything about his fires. The smell of acrid smoke that filled his nostrils and mouth, the sound of crackling wood as it became immersed in the blaze itself, the warmth it emitted to his exposed skin, watching while a myriad of colors fought playfully in mid-air with one another. Of this sight, he could never tire. Yet his greatest joy was the power he wielded. With a single stroke of a match, he could cause normal, levelheaded men and women to drop whatever they'd been doing and recklessly careen down the streets in red trucks, with red lights swirling about and sirens blaring. Single-handedly, he could turn the calm of night into a carnival atmosphere. Reluctantly, he knew he had to leave his fiery newborn baby, just as he'd left the many others to which he'd given birth. Getting to a place where authorities would not and could not find him was easy. He had an eye for finding the safest and best seat for the show. His body ached for release as he shoved the remaining accoutrements of his work back into the bag. Without being seen, he made his way out of the building, never looking back. Once safely hidden, he watched as the flames licked the black night sky. With a full symphony of sirens wailing in the distance, he reached down and slowly, ceremoniously, unzipped his pants. It felt good to be alive. ~~~ The afterglow. McKayla MacDonald sighed and contentedly snuggled in the crook of her husband's muscular right arm. Michael "Mac" MacDonald hugged his wife close to him and lazily traced imaginary lines on her bare back. She, in turn, gently caressed his face, tracing the outline of his jaw, the curve of his ear, her fingers lingering on his lips and playing among the hairs of his auburn moustache. How she loved this man! This was, beyond a doubt, her favorite part of making love. She reveled in their nakedness, glued together by perspiration, limbs entwined. The scent of excitement, passion and sweat danced slowly in harmony, heavily perfuming the air. She felt drunk, tired and giddy all at once. And loved. Totally, wonderfully, forever loved. It was long after Mac had gone to sleep, and she herself had dozed a bit, that far away from their four-bedroom ranch home in the Baltimore suburb of Jacksonville, McKayla heard sirens. Many, many sirens.