The funeral was held on June 21st. The day was overcast, and that was probably for the best. Nobody liked to attend funerals in the rain, but as long as the clouds didn’t try to get everybody wet, then their presence would be a good thing. They lent an appropriately grey and dreary atmosphere to the afternoon’s agenda, and made it feel like the whole universe was in mourning along with Matt and the rest of the neighborhood.

 

At Matt’s request, everybody had brought little plastic flowers to decorate Deborah’s coffin, and a rainbow of red, and purple, and blue petals carpeted her resting place now. Matt was glad that he had finally come up with an offering Deborah would have appreciated.

 

Deborah had always complained when Matt brought her real flowers. Whether it was for her birthday, their anniversaries, or any other occasion, Deborah had always said that Matt bringing her flowers made her sad because she hated to think of something so beautiful being plucked and left to die on her behalf. She had even refused a bouquet for her wedding.

 

Plastic flowers seemed like the perfect alternative, though. Plastic flowers didn’t have to be uprooted or sacrificed on anybody’s behalf. Plastic flowers were created to be pretty, and to be eternal, and to never wither or die if they were kept safe.

 

Deborah would have loved them.

 

Matt shuffled his feet and looked at the ground as Father Thomas stepped forward.

 

He began the funeral the way that he always did; by thanking everybody for coming, by saying a few nice words about Deborah, and by talking about what a light Deborah had been for everybody in the community. 

 

The pastor told a short, funny story about the time two years ago when Deborah had accidentally made cookies for the neighborhood potluck using baking soda instead of sugar. Deborah had never been known as much of a cook, but it had always been the thought that counted with her. Whether her cookies were made with baking soda or sugar, they had always been made with love. And Deborah had never shown up to the potluck without any. 

 

Everybody laughed at the memory of the awful cookies, and the sounds of their catharsis were just loud enough to drown out the noises coming from inside the coffin.

 

At the front of the cul-de-sac, the Sheriff's station and the Fire Department had both parked their vehicles in a formation to block the main road. It was said that their presence was meant to give the mourners some privacy, although that reasoning had always fallen flat with Matt. Who was going to be out and about right now, driving through neighborhoods and interrupting a funeral? 

 

But the officers and firemen had always maintained a respectful distance from the proceedings, so everybody had learned to silently accept and tolerate their presence. 

 

Still, Matt found himself distracted and gazing at the blue and red flashing lights, zoning out in the middle of Father Thomas’ monologue. 

 

It was shameful. Matt should have been focused on the moment. That was his wife in the coffin after all, covered by a blanket of pretty plastic flowers.

 

Matt refocused as Father Thomas dove into the more serious portion of the ceremony. 

 

Father Thomas’ voice dropped to almost a whisper when he spoke of the old gods and their hunger. He spoke of the pain that the world had suffered in the middle of the century, and he spoke of the rituals which the neighborhood had developed, years ago, to satiate the devils’ desires. 

 

The neighbors all nodded their heads in collective understanding, as Father Thomas produced the box of flint and steel which had been passed to him by the priesthood. The Father lit his own torch first, willfully ignoring the muffled screams growing louder throughout the ceremony.

 

Father Thomas’ torch was used to light Mr. Goodman’s, which was used to light Mrs. Bachman’s, and so on, all the way around the circle until Matt lit his own torch on the flame from Mr. Hampton’s. 

 

It was Matt’s right, and his duty, as Deborah’s husband, to be the one to ignite the pyre.

 

He hesitated, the way that Matt had seen other loved ones hesitate time and time again. He had never really understood this moment before, when he was just an observer. But now that it was his turn, Matt found himself struggling against a last second flood of self-doubt and remorse. 

 

He closed his eyes and steeled himself for what had to be done. He remembered what it had been like when the demon Flereous last ravaged the Earth. To this day you could still see the shadows of his victims permanently scorched into the concrete in Kansas City. So many people had died that day.

 

This needed to be done.

 

Opening his eyes, Matt could see the smoke from other neighborhoods’ fires already rising into the air. 

 

With a long breath, and a single tear, Matt touched his torch to the woodpile.

 

Deborah’s pounding and shrieking inside the coffin increased to a desperate crescendo as the kindling caught and the first flames engulfed the old, gas-cured wooden planks of the coffin. 

 

The whole thing went up like a matchbox.

 

Matt joined hands with the other people from the cul-de-sac, and they all sang the old hymns as the smoke rose, the heated air shimmered, and the plastic flowers on the coffin curled.