Full Moon Over Nebraska

The air was thick with sulfuric smoke that billowed thickly from black cast iron containers and made it painful to breathe. But that did not prevent the hooded figures from continuing their monotonous, droning chant. They had been chanting for hours, it seemed, in an unholy, blasphemous language that should have died out long ago with the savage civilization which had created it. The hooded figures, male and female, stood around a stone altar which was intricately carved with with bizarre, occult symbols and bas-reliefs depicting scenes of war, cruelty, and blood sacrifices.

Carrie knew it was useless, but as long as she was still capable of feeling terror, she still had the will to struggle against the iron shackles which fastened her wrists and ankles to the stone slab. Her heart beat violently against her ribs, as if trying to escape its doomed owner. The absolute fear made her breathe so hard and so fast, she found it impossible to scream.

How long had it been since she'd let the stranger buy her that drink? They'd been talking about how the moon would be full in another week, and how they loved a full moon over Nebraska corn fields. She remembered agreeing to go home with him. There wasn't really anything else to do on a small town Saturday night. Get drunk and get picked up, just like the country song. She didn't remember arriving at the man's place, didn't even remember what he looked like. Was it a full moon night, then? Wasn't it on the full moon when these devil worshipping freaks killed their victims?

Why, in God's name, why had she fallen for that line about blonds? Blonds had more fun. Well she wasn't having any fucking fun now.

The stone slab was cold, and it pressed hard against her back. Carrie began to cough from the sulfur burning in her lungs.

The dark hooded figures continued their droning chant. They had dressed her in some sort of robe. It had been white, she could tell from a few untouched spots, but now it was red and sticky with so much blood. It wasn't her blood, was it? No one could bleed that and not feel excruciating pain. But maybe they had given her yet another drug. Leave her conscious while she slowly bled to death, so they could feed off the fear eating away at her, or whatever these sick fucks were into.

She didn't want to die. Let them do anything, anything at all, as long as they didn't kill her. She was much too young. There was so much she still wanted to do. This was not the way she wanted to go.

Blood was all over her robe. It was all over the altar. When she turned her head, she could see more blood on the walls behind her captors. Strange, how so many candles created such little light, and yet enough for her to notice that the whole room was one disgusting, blood-spattered mess.

It couldn't all be hers, if even any of it was. In the distance, over the chants, she thought she could hear the plaintive bleating of sheep.

Virgins. If these perverts were into blonds, they must into virgins, right?

"Dear Jesus," she cried. "I'm not a virgin. Please, didn't you hear me? Oh Jesus Christ, I'm not even a real blond."

The chanting stopped abruptly.

One of the hooded figures, a man, broke ranks, approaching her slowly. He seemed to be floating toward her. His movements were that smooth.

"I beg your pardon?" He smiled as he bent down and turned his ear toward her.

This was her chance.

"I'm not a virgin. And I'm only a bottle blond."

The man turned his head to look at her. He smiled, gently stroking her face. He had a benign, almost fatherly smile -- and kind, blue eyes.

"Not a virgin," he said. "Good for you."

It had obviously been a mistake. The man with the fatherly smile and the kind blue eyes would unshackle her, probably caution her never to whisper a word of this to anyone. Carrie would be only too happy to agree. Anything to get out of this place alive. As long as they would let her live, she'd agree to anything they demanded of her. There were so many things to live for, so many things she still had to do. It was such a small matter to ask in return for her life, she'd never call the cops.

But the chanting resumed. The man continued to stroke her face. No. Terror flooded her anew, as Carrie realized he was actually tracing symbols onto it. The man's smile widened into a grin.

Something cold forced itself into her consciousness, like icy tentacles. For the first time in her life, at the very moment it was about to be wrenched from her, Carrie became aware of the existence of her soul.

And then she knew there were things far worse than death ...