Ben almost forgot the second artist by the time they arrived at the third exhibit. The second artist was a man who believed the blood foretold prophecies as he used it to paint. He prophesied that there would be many inner beauties revealed that night. The crowd of patrons stirred more than before, but the escorts aimed weapons to silence any dissenters. 

Melody stood only five people away as the group settled around the third exhibit. Ben tried to catch her eyes, but she stared at the stage. Ben tried to move closer, but the lights went up and the on stage display stopped all movement. The latest artist worked with muscle and the figure looked magnificent.

“I am the melder of muscle,” the female artist said. “The system of support is beautiful.”

Ben took a half step forward. He’d seen and appreciated a display like that before. Years ago, before Bradley killed his friends, Ben visited the Body Museum, a company that toured and showed the different levels of anatomy from displays of nervous systems strung in shape, to the muscled bodies formed as if skin still held them together. It wasn’t the first exhibit that made Ben want to hurl.

Red beads of fluid flecked the muscles along the bent arms. A small drop fell from one elbow. The figure’s positioning reminded Ben of Atlas, the Titan that held the world on his shoulders. While the figure held nothing on their shoulders, the bent knee, raised arms, and bowed head made it look like a replica of the Ayn Rand Atlas Shrugged book cover. No one cried out in horror at the view.

“I will take your silence as shocked appreciation,” the woman said. “Some of you might join us by the night’s end.”

The lights went out. Each patron turned to their neighbors as if gauging sanity levels in a glimpse. The eyes flitted across Ben without second thoughts, all except for one pair. Melody stared at Ben with a look of concern and fear, but when she noticed Ben’s gaze, she turned away. The crowd swallowed her before Ben could move again.

“Do you think anyone would do this?” One person asked.

“No,” another person said, “no one here would be so base to follow such foul creatures.”

A far off whispering caught Ben’s attention.

“Have you seen my husband?” A woman asked. “I don’t know where he went. He said nothing to me.” 

Ben found a woman in her thirties. She searched the crowd with the frantic nature of a mother with a lost child. Blood dripped from the joints of the Atlas figure.

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