Magic IRL

The Infernists

"Let's get these rednecks!" Chris says over his radio. "Look alive, boys!"

I do my best to avoid contorting my face. Of all the agents in the IDU, Chris is the one I most dread seeing assigned to my cases. He cares—I can't fault him on that front—but he lets it slip into an unhealthy disdain.

He doesn't know any better, not like me. I spent my youth in the Tennessee backcountry. My grandmother—her hair perpetually singed—was one of those rednecks. "We follow the Way of the Inferno," she taught me all those years ago. "No matter what them goddamn coastal elites think about it."

I tighten my grip on my rifle—trained on the car floor—as Chris takes a wide turn onto a dirt road. I feel every bump, even through the body armor.

"You think we're gonna see any trouble?" Chris asks.

"I doubt it," I say, through gritted teeth.

I hope I'm right. Peace was a fundamental tenet of the Infernism my grandmother preached. "It's easy to light a fire," she would say, conjuring magical flames in her palms. "But you'd better be sure you want it because it ain't easy to put the damned thing out."

I look out the window as Chris speeds down the dirt road, leaving a plume of dust in our wake. In the distance, I can finally see the compound—a lonely structure amid the flat scrubby landscape. Based on our drone reconnaissance, I estimate that we are probably no more than ten minutes away.

"We have visuals," Chris barks through his radio.

I remember meeting kids like the ones in this compound. I am thankful I wasn't one myself. My grandmother—for all her faults—insisted that I go to a public school. But the rest of the family wasn't so lucky. I recall my cousins—all fire and rage—telling me that I was being brainwashed, that the Infernist way of life was under attack.

It is easy to judge them in hindsight, but they weren't entirely wrong. "Every other industrialized nation has banned Infernism," I remember a politician saying on television. "I'm all for tradition, but at some point we have to realize that there's no place for these walking death machines in the twenty-first century."

As we approach, I can make out the details of the compound. Concrete walls. Few windows. A handful of pickup trucks in a parking lot. And—most concerning—charred bushes in the surrounding scrubland. I click my helmet and tighten my boots. Just in case.

Charring had been a common sight growing up. I spent countless hours sending flames dancing across my grandmother's yard, her careful instruction unable to prevent every small fire. She always forgave me—every burn another reminder that Infernism was a delicate balance between beauty and destruction.

Chris pulls into the parking lot. Before we even come to a complete stop, I open the door and jump out. My boots crunch against the gravel. I pull my visor down and huddle against the vehicle as I wait for the rest of the squad to arrive.

I was young when I first realized the dangers of my people. It was on the news. There was a big debate over how to regulate Infernism—whether technology had made our gifts useless, whether our traditions justified the risk of our destructive power. But the debate didn't conclude with a careful balancing of the merits. It ended with a blaze. I remember seeing the disgruntled Infernist. The rapid inferno. Unending smoke. My grandmother hollering. The television turned off.

Around me, the parking lot becomes a flurry of activity. Agents in smooth black tactical gear swarm all sides of the compound. Chris and I make a beeline for the entrance.

I remember the months in the aftermath of the attack. All Infernists were ordered to report to facilities and subject themselves to Inhibiton. My grandmother was furious. "One looney and they forget that we helped the Pilgrims survive the winters, that we powered their combustion engines during the World Wars!" she would shout at the television, blue flames dancing from her fingertips. "Bullshit!"