Slayer Gomez is dreaming, dreaming of fire and smoke and death. Dreaming that he is outside in the hot sun watching as big clouds of black billowy smoke like great waves in a sea, floats up into the morning sky. The red bandanna around his face helped some with the stench of burning flesh assaulting his nostrils while his stomach rumble from lack of food. He is staving, not having ate in days, but the stink of human remains quenches his appetite for now.
Slayer sits behind the wheel of a dump truck, driving it backwards toward an open pit of flames and smoke. He knows what he will see there, it’s what he always seen, so he doesn’t look back as he releases the mechanism that will tip the bed of his truck. Slayer looks in the rear view long enough to watch another load of corpses being dumped into the raging flames, like piles of sticks, as it crackles and spits.
The flames licks up at him like a hungry tiger eager to eat more, its roar not yet tamed after hundred of trips to its opening. Slayer watches as it consume the last of the bodies before putting the truck in drive. He wipes at his face with a towel on this hot December day, its over ninety degrees, as large beads of sweat roll down his back in the hot bed of the truck making the wife-beater stick to his dark skin. The sound of a large truck rolling down the street rumbles the ground under him, but again Slayer doesn’t look up from his work knowing the truck held only more bodies, more of the dead to be burned. The Lucky ones. Instead he scoops up another load from the many loads before him to feed the hungry open pit.