A Conflagration

This year was Lynchburg's election year. By mid-October, the campaigns were in their final stretch.

The town had set up stages in Lynchburg Square, in front of Lynchburg College, the music hall, the small square in the industrial district—anywhere there was foot traffic.

It was a tradition dating back to the town's founding.

Of course, by now it had become a mere formality for the councilmen.

As long as you handed your employees an extra month's wages before the election,

and gave out enough supermarket discount coupons at your speech, you'd have their votes.

Especially after the Great Depression, votes were tied directly to bread and jobs.

So in recent years, the townspeople had grown indifferent to the whole process.

After all, they kept electing the same few people over and over.

This attitude bred politicians who knew how to phone it in.

They'd draw up a schedule for the stages—today you, tomorrow me.

They'd get up, mumble a few words, pass out three rounds of coupons, and the council seats were theirs.

Andy Jones had thrived in this environment and understood it well.

But as a relative newcomer, he still felt he should take the speeches seriously, if only to advertise his company.

So after he arranged for Dominic and assumed the police (who he thought he'd worked with so many times) wouldn't fail him,

Andy went to bed early, determined to erase yesterday's humiliation.

He dreamed sweetly of clinching the council seat and finally crushing those two brats, Leo and Fox.

The dream was abruptly cut short. A panicked servant shook him awake, and Andy, still in his pajamas, stumbled to his door half-dazed.

There on the ground lay his workers—faces bruised, arms and legs broken.

Even Dominic, whose towering figure made him a terrifying legend in town, was so badly beaten Andy barely recognized him.

They'd failed!

And where the hell were the cops?

When Andy finally stood on the stage to give his speech, his face was thunderous.

It got even darker when he saw the crowd.

Two thousand people.

Half of them in old army uniforms, the other half regular townsfolk.

The veterans stayed silent at first, but the townspeople started grumbling:

"Why is it Andy again? Where's Desmond? Did he even save that guy yesterday?"

"Did that shell ever explode?"

"Did he carry his buddy back to the field hospital?"

Others, just wanting to stir things up, shouted:

"Andy, get down! Let Desmond finish his story first.

We don't want to hear your boring crap right now."

Andy's already foul mood sank to rock bottom.

He gave up any hope of salvaging the speech, ignored the jeers, and just read from his notes in a dull monotone.

He only wanted it over with so he could figure out what the hell had happened last night.

He even skipped the usual tradition of handing out discount coupons, earning himself the new nickname "Stingy Andy" as he left.

"Bastards still expect my coupons? Damn paupers,"

he muttered as he pushed through the booing crowd.

Suddenly there was cheering behind him.

Andy smirked—finally, these paupers were learning to hide their rotten mouths for a discount.

He turned to accept their applause—

only to freeze in humiliation.

On the stage stood Desmond, resplendent in a pressed uniform covered in medals, waving at the cheering crowd.

Beside him was Father Lesterwin in an elegant suit.

As they took the stage, church sisters and veterans' association staff moved through the crowd holding boxes—

filled with the coupons people hadn't gotten earlier.

The cheers grew deafening.

Someone shouted:

"Desmond, just run for council already! You'll have my vote!"

"Mine too!"

Voices like that erupted everywhere.

Andy sneered at the "foolish paupers."

Did they really think politics was that simple?

A farmer fights a few battles, tells some sob stories, and he can sweep aside generations of effort?

What a joke.

Since Andy could remember, there hadn't been a single pauper in Lynchburg who'd truly "made it."

Father Lesterwin began his speech:

"In 1683, seven persecuted Puritan immigrants crossed the ocean to these lands.

In one hand they held the Bible, in the other the hoe.

They founded the settlement that became Lynchburg.

Apart from one calling himself a priest, the other six had just one identity: farmers.

Through their toil they put down roots and built this town.

Those seven became the forerunners of our council of seven.

Because of them, we are here today.

Lynchburg's tradition has always been of farmers.

And today, God's gaze once more falls on this land, moved by the greatness of one man's deeds.

Desmond—a farmer's son blessed by the Almighty.

He is the symbol of courage and loyalty!

The embodiment of the American spirit!

It is time to return to our roots.

As I near retirement, I introduce to you the man I hope will succeed me: Desmond.

I hope you will cast your votes for this man touched by God, destined to lead our town to greatness."

As Father Lesterwin finished, the people planted in the crowd began chanting,

raising their hands and shouting:

"Desmond! God's chosen!"

More and more joined in, the chants merging into a rhythmic roar,

spreading outward and drawing in even more townsfolk.

The crowd swelled in size and volume.

Meanwhile, not far from Lynchburg College, at the Jones construction site:

A group of drunken workers were once again fighting with others who were sleeping on-site.

The drunks accused the others of slacking off.

The "lazy" workers retorted that the drunks were out of control.

Tensions that had simmered for weeks finally exploded.

First insults, then punches.

It turned into an all-out brawl on the site.

At some point, someone knocked over the heater used for night work.

Flames spread—straight to the blasting powder used for breaking rock.

A massive explosion ripped through the site.

The fire raged with renewed fury.

The fighting stopped immediately as those not caught in the blast ran for their lives.

Jones' construction site turned into an inferno.

The blast and thick black smoke drew the attention of the entire town.

"I'm finished… it's over…"

Andy collapsed onto the floor of his home.

"Where's my dog? Where's my dog?!"

He raged through the house looking for his hunting hound.

Whenever he was in trouble, he liked to feed the dog in his study while he thought things through.

But today, he couldn't find it at all.

Blinded by anger, he began kicking and punching the Black butler who'd served him for twenty years.

A piercing scream sounded from upstairs.

Andy froze—it was his son's voice.

He abandoned the butler and ran up in three steps.

Bursting into David's room, he saw his son sprawled on the bed, face white as a sheet, frothing at the mouth.

Beneath him was a pool of blood.

On David's chest, staring with lifeless eyes, lay the severed, bloody head of Andy's missing dog.

Andy let out a strangled scream as pain ripped through his chest.

With one last gasp, he collapsed to the floor in a dead faint.

No one noticed, at the edge of the Jones estate wall, Faith landing lightly from a jump.

Hearing the chaos in the mansion, he let a twisted smile curl across his face.