Now with two lanterns, the jockey lifted one high above its head and held it there for a two-count. Rob understood, pissed himself, and started to scream, "Noooo!!" The jockey smashed the 2nd lantern on Rob's chest. Burning oil splashed and spread all over Rob and lit the oil that soaked Rob. He screamed even louder. Just mindless screaming, no words. It seemed impossible that someone could scream so loudly. "Why doesn't anyone come to see, come to help?" Rob thought while he thrashed and tried to escape. He was pinned so tightly, however, that only his torso bucked and writhed. It looked like he was performing some sort of odd ab exercise. Rob continued to wail. His screams pierced the otherwise quiet night at the lake. The screams sounded like the squealing of hundreds of rusted sled rails being pulled over concrete. The tiny little black hands bubbled and peeled as the paint on them burned away. They held on firmly, stoically. The muscle dog moved closer, the weathered jockey by her side. The smell of the cooking human drew her. She drooled, the smells of the flesh irresistible. She lunged at Rob's face and bit off some of his charred cheek. He was still alive, though as good as dead, and still screamed silently. His lungs were seared and although he still worked his mouth in excruciating pain, no sound came out. The jockey saw Rob's teeth and tongue squirm and move through the hole in his face. The jockeys began to let go one at a time, and one by one they walked towards the lake. They marched into the lake en masse, their little lights hissed and blinked out as they bobbed into the water and below the surface. Before long they were all gone, except the weathered jockey. He took one last expressionless look at the blackened remains on the deck, then shuffled over to his regular spot in the yard and took up his silent vigil, lantern held aloft in one hand.
