The Cleansing Flames

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The arsonists had chosen their target well. The warehouse was wooden and it contained barrels of vodka, produced at the nearby distillery on the small island in the Malaya Neva.

Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky stood on Alexandrovsky Prospect, looking up at the burning building. Brilliant orange tongues licked out from the windows, questing the black night. Virginsky could sense the fire gorging itself on this plentiful fuel. More than that, he could hear its savage, drunken roar, as it grew in force and intensity. A series of booming explosions, like gigantic belches, resonated within. So far the structure was holding out, but its collapse was surely imminent. The smoke was thick with the stench of burning resin from the timbers as they started to catch. Weightless seeds of fire swirled in the hot eddies above and around the building, an aura of destruction. It was in the fire’s nature to spread itself, consuming and converting everything in its path. These sparks were the emissaries of that intent. The surrounding apartment buildings, exposed in a tremulous glow, seemed to shiver as they awaited its approach.

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