Chapter 2: The Pillar of Salt and Regret

Chapter 2: The Pillar of Salt and Regret

The Stater Bros. parking lot in Victorville was an asphalt sea of shimmering heat and suburban normalcy. Minivans baked under the midday sun, shopping carts strayed like metallic tumbleweeds, and the distant, cheerful jingle of the ice cream truck was a testament to a world utterly oblivious to the cosmic horror melting in Lot J.

Kael pulled his beat-up Ford Ranger into a spot three rows down, the engine complaining with a final, wheezing gasp. He killed the ignition and sat for a moment, the Soul-Tab heavy on the passenger seat beside him. The memory of the impossible office and the Administrator’s ink-blot eyes felt like a fever dream, but the sleek black tablet was undeniably real. Its screen showed a calm, blue dot for his location and a flashing red icon over the scene ahead.

Unscheduled termination event. The Administrator’s dry, papery voice echoed in his head. Confirm and catalog.

He could see the police cruisers, their light bars off, lending a surreal quiet to the scene. A rookie deputy was stringing up yellow tape in a lazy rectangle around a single parking space, while a more seasoned officer, a woman with sharp features and dark hair pulled into a tight, practical bun, stared at the… exhibit… with an expression of profound frustration.

Kael grabbed the Soul-Tab, his hand slick with sweat. He felt ridiculous, like a kid playing a sci-fi game. What was he supposed to do, walk up and flash his official afterlife census-taker badge? He didn’t have a badge.

He got out of the truck, trying to look like a curious bystander. The small crowd of onlookers made it easy. They murmured amongst themselves, phones held up to capture the bizarre tableau.

“What is it?” someone whispered. “Some kind of statue? A protest?”

“I heard it was a guy,” another voice answered. “Just…poof.”

Kael edged closer, his mechanic’s eyes taking in the details. The thing in the center of the taped-off area had once been a man. The shape was vaguely humanoid, about six feet tall, but rough and crystalline. It was made of coarse, white salt, the kind you’d throw on an icy road. A half-melted carton of Ben & Jerry’s lay at its base, a puddle of Cherry Garcia slowly bleeding into the porous white feet. A single, crystalline hand was frozen in the act of reaching for a car door handle.

The sharp-featured deputy, Lena Petrova according to her name tag, was talking into her radio. “Look, I’m telling you what I see. There’s no sign of a struggle, no accelerant. The M.E. is just as stumped as we are. Just mark it as a John Doe for now and get ready for a weird press release.”

Kael felt a strange sense of detachment, a buffer between him and the horror. This was his job now. He wasn’t here to gawk or grieve; he was here to do paperwork. He ducked behind a Suburban, out of the deputy’s line of sight, and powered on the Soul-Tab.

The screen flickered to life, displaying a simple, brutalist interface. A prompt appeared: INITIATE SCAN? Y/N. He tapped ‘Y’.

A faint, blue-white light emanated from the tablet, washing over the scene. To Kael’s naked eye, nothing changed. But on the screen, the world resolved into a mess of data. The living bystanders glowed with a faint, steady green. The police cars had faint, residual energy signatures from their drivers. But the salt pillar… it blazed with a fading, ghostly white light.

The Tab chimed softly. ENTITY SIGNATURE CONFIRMED. DESIGNATION: DOE, JOHN Q. CAUSE OF TERMINATION: SODIUM-BASED MOLECULAR TRANSFIGURATION.

A form appeared on the screen, pre-filled with the basics. Kael’s job was to verify and add environmental details. Location: Confirmed. Witnesses: 17 (non-aware). Official Interference: Confirmed (Local Law Enforcement). It was cold, clinical, and terrifyingly efficient. This device saw the soul, the ghost in the machine, and reduced it to a database entry.

He followed the on-screen prompts, aiming the Tab’s sensor around the perimeter as instructed. Scan for residual ectoplasmic energy… Scan for temporal distortions… Scan for unauthorized soul-mass… Each scan came back negative. According to Sunny Side Up Transitional Services, this was an open-and-shut case. A man had, for reasons unknown to the mortal plane, spontaneously transformed into a pillar of salt. Kael’s only task was to click ‘Submit’, collect his pay, and drive home to slap that eviction notice silly.

Rule one: You only observe and report.

He was about to do just that when his eyes caught something on the ground, almost directly beneath the pillar of salt. It was a faint shimmer in the air, a distortion just above the asphalt, like heat rising off the road. But this was different. It was… structured.

He zoomed in with the Tab’s camera, but the screen showed nothing but cracked, oil-stained pavement. He looked up, using his own eyes again. The shimmer was still there. A circle, about three feet in diameter, drawn in lines of faint, shimmering light that the harsh desert sun should have completely washed out. Inside the circle were complex, intersecting lines and symbols that pulsed with a soft, internal energy. A sigil.

Kael froze, his heart thumping against his ribs. He pointed the Soul-Tab directly at it. The device’s scanner passed right over the glowing marks, its diagnostic text remaining a flat, unconcerned green. ENVIRONMENTAL SCAN: CLEAR. NO ANOMALOUS ENERGY DETECTED.

It couldn’t see it. The official, all-knowing tool of the cosmic middle-managers was completely blind to the glowing, magical-looking graffiti that was almost certainly related to the guy who just turned into a salt-lick.

This wasn’t in the manual. The Administrator had been very clear: the Tab would guide him. He was a census-taker, a data-entry clerk. But Kael was also a man who spent his life diagnosing problems. When a car made a noise it wasn’t supposed to make, you didn’t just ignore it and write ‘car is fine’ on the work order. You found the source. You figured out why.

The Administrator’s voice was a cold weight in his mind. An unbalanced ledger creates cosmic friction. File the report as presented. Filing an incomplete report was bad. But filing a report that ignored a key piece of evidence felt worse. It felt like malpractice.

Rule three: Refer to rule one.

The rules were designed to maintain order, to keep the paperwork clean. But that sigil felt like a threat. It wasn't random. That pillar of salt wasn't a freak accident; it was an execution. And the weapon was still lying there on the ground, invisible to the very people supposed to be cataloging the crime.

His hand hovered over the ‘Submit’ button on the Soul-Tab. All he had to do was press it. Go home. Pay rent. Forget the glowing circle and the man made of regret and seasoning. It was the smart thing to do. The safe thing to do.

He couldn't do it.

With a glance over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, Kael lowered the Soul-Tab. He pulled out his own cracked-screen smartphone, the battery hovering at a perilous 15%. His hands, usually steady when rebuilding a carburetor, trembled slightly as he opened the camera app.

He pretended to be just another morbid bystander, snapping a picture of the police tape. But he angled the phone down, catching the pillar, the melting ice cream, and the faint, shimmering sigil on the asphalt beneath it. The phone’s cheap lens captured the glow perfectly.

Click.

The image saved to his phone, a piece of forbidden knowledge. A secret from his new employers.

He took a deep breath, the air thick with the smell of hot asphalt and impending supernatural doom. He turned his attention back to the Soul-Tab, its screen still displaying the clean, simple, and utterly incomplete report. With a final, decisive tap, he hit ‘Submit’.

A confirmation message appeared. REPORT FILED. PAYMENT PROCESSED. THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE.

He had done his job. He had followed the rules, technically. But as he walked back to his truck, the weight of the secret picture on his phone felt a thousand times heavier than the Soul-Tab. He had crossed a line on his very first day. He hadn’t just observed; he’d investigated. And he had a sinking feeling that this was just the beginning.