Theory of a Revolution - 2

"...commit his ashes to their resting place, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless him and keep him, the Lord make his face to shine upon him and be gracious unto him and give him peace. Amen."

A young male by the name of Shilo Miller hovered above a wide crater near the center of a large area known as the funeral grounds. This was a section of Bethel located in between Lael and Belral and one of the first places people noticed when on their way to Belral. It constantly reeked of burning flesh, rotting corpses, or a stomach-churning combination of the two nauseating stenches.

Shilo, the youngest of the seven "gravekeepers" working there, had grown used to this after being employed there for three of his five years in Bethel. Everyday he saw the same depressing thing: deceased men, women, and children being brought to the funeral grounds by the family that loved them in hopes that their loved one would finally have a suitable resting place amongst others passed. "Rest assured," he would tell them in the most comforting tone he could manage, "they're in good hands."

They would thank him multiple times and for each praise Shilo would nod and smile. You're welcome. You're very welcome. The head gravekeeper, a fairly bulky man in his mid-forties, would quickly escort the mourning family out of the funeral grounds and, once they were out of view, Shilo would haul the corpse to the parlor, being extremely careful in doing so. The moment Shilo heard the heavy metal gate at the entrance slam shut, he would hesitate, then get to work robbing the corpse of what the family left with it; necklaces, bracelets, any type of jewelry and even clothing would be taken if it was considered valuable. When he was finished, he would toss the items into the heavily sanitized tin container that stored the rest of the stolen items. Just as carefully as he brought it in, the young man would carry the corpse to the mass grave in the center of the area and toss it in with the rest of the bodies for the days' burning.

Just like the trash everyone accuses them of being. With the regular and unnecessary prayer, Shilo's job was done.

This was Shilo's melancholic everyday routine. When he was first forced to do it, he resented it, even refused it at times. The longer he had to do the horrible job of robbing and disposing of the bodies, the more he realized how grateful he should have been for such a sickening job; he wasn't living in the poor Belral nor was he in the wealthy Lael. He was one of the rare middle-class citizens of Bethel. A gravekeeper.

That day had been uninteresting as it always was. There had been a total of twenty-three bodies brought to him, approximately seventeen items taken and nothing besides a particularly nice set of earrings on a Belral woman caught his attention. The day was quickly coming to a close and Shilo was thankful that there had been nothing out of the ordinary. As he turned to head inside the small house he lived in for the day, he heard the entrance gate open and slam shut, making him jump and turn back around. Of course, there always had to be at least one more person.

Rather than the sorrow-stricken family he expected, he was greeted by an somewhat effeminate man in a white lab coat followed by two other men carrying another on a stretcher. In an instant Shilo straightened his shoulders at the sight of the one in lab coat and struggled to find a proper greeting for the man he only knew so well. That everyone knew so damn well.

Dr. Jason Fletcher, the head of all medical affairs in Gamaliel and, at twenty-one, the youngest member of the Top Ten. He was best known for his decision concerning the division of the medical district and his lack of concern for anyone or anything. Very rarely did Dr. Fletcher visit the funeral grounds but, when he did, it was always to visit the head gravekeeper about proposed laws.

So, by this fact alone, it was very strange when Dr. Fletcher looked straight at Shilo, his face void of any emotion, and said in an incredibly monotonous voice, "Good evening, Mr. Miller."

"G-Good evening, Dr. Fletcher," Shilo stammered, doing a quick sweep of the area to see if the head gravekeeper was nearby. He was not. "How can I help you?" Shilo fidgeted with the rosary he wore around his neck, hoping Dr. Fletcher had made a mistake in coming to the funeral grounds. That thought nearly made him laugh. Ha! The Top Ten are never wrong.

"I'm here to drop off a patient we lost at Medical South," Dr. Fletcher briefly looked back at the man on the stretcher. "I assume you know what to do." This was said more as a statement than a question and Shilo wasn't sure whether he should have been flattered or insulted; he knew what he was doing, after all.

"R-Right." With a curt nod, Shilo walked over to the stretcher as the two men roughly dropped it on the ground. Shilo winced when it landed with a loud THUMP on the dry soil then, glancing at the three men hovering above him, he knelt next to the stretcher.

The body looked perfectly fine; there was no obvious physical damage to it, so Shilo just assumed it was another failed experiment with a new vaccination. Sighing loudly, Shilo stood and nodded to Dr. Fletcher. "I'll take care of him sir. We'll—ah." He cut himself short when he happened to look back down to see the supposedly dead man's chest slowly rising and falling. "Dr. Fletcher?"

"What is it?" Dr. Fletcher crossed his arms and stared at Shilo once again.

"He's...that man is alive."

His response was immediate: "He's dead, Mr. Miller."

Shilo knew well the consequences of arguing with any of the Top Ten, but this he couldn't let go. It bothered him far too much. "Sir, he's breathing..."

For a very short moment, an expression that resembled anger flashed across Dr. Fletcher's face. He turned his head to look down at the man and, before Shilo could even tell what was happening or attempt to stop it for that matter, the man's head was ripped off his body and flung aside. "He's dead, Mr. Miller."

"H-H..." Shilo stared at the corpse in horror, choking back rising vomit. Once again he had lost the words he had strove to finally grasp.

"Take care of this, gravekeeper," Dr. Fletcher, as if he had simply crushed a bug, turned and disappeared with the two other men out the front gate.

This was Shilo's everyday, disgusting life. For three years he had to do it and, deep down, he still despised it. But as he stared at the pool of blood forming where the decapitated man's head should have been and fingered the bar code on his left wrist, he realized how fortunate he really was.