Michael walked through the club, feeling the pounding bass coming from giant speakers at the other end of the establishment. Lights flashed and strobed along with the heavy beats as highs squealed and lows churned the bodies around him into a dancing frenzy. None of them knew the danger that lurked there, between them, the immortals of bloodlust. Vampires. He was one, too, but his goal was clear: Kill them all. Or as many as he could. Seven months ago he was set up. An old man begging to be released from misery, a high payout for his family, and all that doomed a vampire who vehemently refused to join a house.
Vampire politics were much the same as humans: corruption, backbiting, infighting, betrayal, and secret alliances. All of which kept houses up and running, and on top of the business of selling blood and shelter to those that were outside of their inner circles. Michael had avoided it for 437 years and now he found himself at the epicenter of a scandal that reached very high up into the ranks of several houses. He would not stand for it. He had thought that the humans were the ones waging war and thus swore a blood oath against them, not knowing the true nature of what he had been involved in.
Now he walked amongst them as they turned drunken and drugged eyes away to ignore what they didn't consider a threat. But he was. The lion amongst the wolves, the shark swimming through the piranhas, a king cobra slithering through the nest of vipers. Soon the mayhem would begin. Soon the screams would come. Soon death would walk with the immortals and stay his scythe no more. 'Let them dance,' he thought to himself, allowing a gift of mercy, for now, before it all began. He did, too. He let the rhythm take him, closed his eyes and let his senses, already heightened, be carried to the heavens by feeling and a need to move, alone.
He thrust his hands in the air, moved his hips, rocked back and forth, and swayed with the music that pumped forth. The club, numbering near 200 occupants, seemed to move with him. None saw the clips full of silver bullets tipped with garlic nitrate that lined the back of his belt. Not one noticed the twin pistols dancing along with him in the holsters beneath his coat, both set for automatic fire. The blade that nestled close to his hip went unnoticed by all. Michael's eyes opened and saw the spray-painted banner behind the DJ that read 'Reign In Blood,' and thought it so fitting. It was time.
He stilled in the middle of the dance floor, his violet eyes picking out each and every one of his targets, oblivious to the violence about to be wrought. He closed his eyes once more and smiled, enjoying the calm. Music gave way to gunfire. Gunfire gave way to screams. Screams gave way to burning after Michael drew and started firing, the specialized bullets reducing their recipients to a pile of smoldering ash and orange sparks that flitted through the air, changing colors with the lights as they continued to flux.
The pistols jumped in his hands, as he screamed with fury and glee. Blood sprayed and ash flew. Many begged for their lives, and Michael did not give them quarter. Others tried attacking, but he was too fast for them. Most of them were fledglings, barely discovering their abilities, trying to take down a seasoned hunter with all of his senses and abilities trained and in line. So many tried to flee, but the doors were sealed; a lock-in rave, is what promised their doom. Vampires. The pinnacle of the food chain. Now just fodder for the predator who preyed upon them.
Clips dropped and were replaced as he kept firing. They fought back, many piling atop him as he tried to continue his wanton slaughter. Only then did the blade he carried cry out to taste flesh, too. And he obliged. An arc of the weapon felled enough to get the weight off of him as he dropped his pistols; for now, they were not done singing. Claws and fangs came at him like spears and daggers, but he was faster. Michael moved like rushing water sluicing itself between still rocks, lightning cutting through a million rain drops. Now over half the club was dead and burning.
He made his way back to his twin pistols and picked them up, quieting the blade, and allowed hot iron to again herald death. It felt like eternity since it had begun, but the song playing silently in the background had just finished fading away. He took out a note, dropped it upon the now empty dance floor and walked to a window, letting himself out. The first blow was struck. Now the war amongst the clans and houses would ignite into a conflagration that would burn down the vampire ranks.
Michael had one last thought, as he looked back over his shoulder at the chaos that had just quieted, regarding the strings he was tying to certain individuals in this plot. And he smiled as it crept across his mind, 'Let them dance.'
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Sunday, November 10, 2013
An Immortals Tale: Part 10
An Immortals Tale
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 10
"The Children of Dust"
Jon's empty fist was clenched against the tiled wall of his shower, helping him deal with the pain of the hot cascade playing down his aching and bruised body. Ricky's death was still fresh in his mind, watching him reduced to ash. Another bone in his body, somewhere, healed itself and popped back into it's proper place. It didn't even bring a grunt forth, he'd been dealing with the same thing for about two hours now. The only thought that eclipsed his friend's death was being called the worst name in all of history: Judas Iscariot.
The creature from the bar had told him he'd been named before. That awful name. Why? Then almost immediately after he received his only clue in the form of a text describing an ancient cult. He knew the name that was in the message, The Circle of Altu'Rang, he knew them well. He leaned his head against the tile, joining his still clenched hand. They were a small sect, hell bent on destroying the world, not because they're evil, but because they believe they're the utmost and purest form of good. They felt it was their duty to bring hell unto the heathen masses of human kind. He'd dealt with them once before when they caused one of the ugliest wars in history: The Civil War.
A muscle in his shoulder righted itself, feeling like a burning slug under his skin trying to find a home, he gritted his teeth. If the cult was back then that means that, now, as a Paladin, Jon's duty was to stop them. He had already declared death upon them in God's name. He passed their sentence as judge. Now he needed to be executioner. He finished his shower, putting mental effort for the rest of his body to heal itself, before letting his usually jovial mind sink to thoughts of war.
Even as Jon dressed and made plans of action the name kept playing in the background, like static, and instead of letting it distract him he used it. Turned it into anger, hate, power. Words slipped forth through the fog of planning, giving him new abilities, 'Michaelis Gladio' turned his hands into orange blades of fire. 'Illuminas Aureos' was a mistake to say inside, shooting a solid beam of orange power, flame, and anger forth from his eyes, blowing out four or five of the giant windows in his apartment. 'Pessulum Custos' was the last of them, and it left the immortal in awe. He watched in wonder as blue lightning danced across his hands, his extended fingers, arched between the two appendages, slithered over him like snakes made of pure energy.
As amazing as his new found powers were, though, his last encounter with the hooded figures proved they weren't enough. He donned his familiar black suit, but added things to it: A double holster for twin pistols at the small of his back, a knife with ancient relics carved into the steel and an ancient leather sheath joined them, four vials of holy water, two extra clips for the pistols, and his Bible. He left his apartment, dropping off a hefty amount of cash and an apology note to the landlord on his way out, armed to the teeth. As he descended the stairs some old saying came to mind, he couldn't remember where he'd heard it: 'Demons run when a good man goes to war."
The night had a chilly bite to it and he liked it, taking in a deep breath as his new eyes surveyed the city blocks around him bathed in the amber glow of street lights, the symphony of the people that came alive after the sun set played around him. He enjoyed it. Jon started to turn down the street when his eyes caught on something he didn't expect: two hooded figures standing on the street corner opposite him. The world exploded into chaos. Behind him the wall of his apartment building blew apart, sending a cloud of dust and Jon flying to the street with rubble to decorate both.
The immortal quickly found his feet as the two raised their hands, preparing for another attack, he reacted and leaped forward. The ground where he was just a moment ago tore apart with invisible power, as he advanced the two beings separated and began to run in a circle around him, an attempt to flank, but Jon was ready. As quick as thought Jon opened his mouth in a silent scream and unleashed a bolt of energy at the one on his right, not expecting to hit it, but giving it enough reason to have to evade and interrupt the attack. As soon as the geyser of power had left him he dashed as fast as he could towards the one on his left.
The hooded one Jon was now running at reacted by throwing invisible balls of air at him, but he could see them, now, and dodged easily as he closed the gap. The figured wheeled back, it's attack failing, as soon it found itself within arms length of the immortal. At the last possible second Jon jumped as quickly as he could to his right, just as a ball of air flew past him and hit the figure he was about to grab, knocking the robed attacker off it's feet. The immortal spun on the other assailant, now double the distance they were when they began, and stood tall. For a moment the world was silent as the two left standing in this confrontation, each staring the other down.
The figure broke the silence, "We underestimated you, Paladin. It won't happen again." The voice was elderly, and had it not been for the threat laced through the statement, would have easily belonged to a kind and fatherly type of grandparent. "Oh, yes, you will." Jon shot back. The head with the hood upon nodded in a show of supplication. Instead of throwing hands out, like before, the hooded one's hands began to roll something between them, like packing a snowball. Quickly orange light grew from just a spark to a sphere the size of a basketball between them, and then the thing was flung forward. Jon had plenty of anger left and he focused his eyes, his new ability, and let forth a beam of fire and power at the ball.
The beam and the sphere collided, sounding like a crack of lightning and a belt of thunder, lighting up the street the way the lights above could only dream of doing. For a good, long moment, the two powers raged against each other before finally dispelling in a shower of sparks and flames and a chest thumping explosion that shattered all the windows of the cars and buildings lining the street they were on. Hands that had thrown the sphere went up to shield from the cacophony and in doing so made the mistake Jon needed. As they came down Jon's came up, a pistol leveled, and a shot rang out. The hooded figure collapsed as the bullet tore through the hood itself, carrying blood, bone and bits of grey with it.
"NO!" A shriek erupted behind Jon. Without hesitation the immortal spun and leaped, turning his free hand into a glowing blade, plunging it into the middle of the figure on the floor. A grunt came from the mouth hidden by the robe as the garment fell back, revealing something that would have shocked the immortal, had he not been in the white hot grip of rage: a woman in her late fifties, gray hairs streaking through the black curls upon her head, soft skin, and blue eyes. She coughed up a gout of blood upon the immortal's face as he bore down on her, his fingers touching the pavement below the body.
Her eyes were wide with pain and alarm, her pale face decorated with webs of the blood she had just expelled. She began to shake under the power burning in the middle of her body as she stared up at Jon. She looked down at the hand that had been her impending death and back up to his face and reached up. Jon expected pain or a strike of some kind, but he received instead a caress and a smile. His anger faulted for a moment as she spoke her last words, "You haven't...changed a....bit.....Judas...." Her hand fell away and her body shook one last time then became still.
Sirens began to play somewhere off in the distance as Jon stood, holstering his pistol and looking down upon the woman in the robe. He couldn't let this get back to mortal eyes and ears so he ignited his power once more and burned her body, bones, clothing and all, leaving nothing but a bit of ash. With urgency the immortal ran over to the other body and began to search it. In the frenzy of dipping in and out of the robe and it's small pockets only one thing was produced: a note. He took it and burned the body, as well, making a quick departure from the scene.
Many blocks away he took the paper out and began to read. 'When the worst of the sinners becomes the last of the paladins darkness will fall. Fire will rise and the sky will bleed. Unbiased judgement will be passed upon all. Chaos will arise and become the crooked beast. The Children Of Dust will arise and take back their land. When the worst and the last begins Slouching Towards Bethlehem." Jon didn't realize he'd stopped walking, or that it had started raining. 'Child of Dust' was an ancient moniker for an immortal. He wasn't the only one.
He began walking again, not caring about his destination, the note tucked back into his pocket. Words whirled in his head like a tornado out of control. The name Judas, the Children of Dust, and the one that sent chills down his spine, the one phrase that confirmed his fears: Slouching Towards Bethlehem. It meant the end of days.
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 10
"The Children of Dust"
Jon's empty fist was clenched against the tiled wall of his shower, helping him deal with the pain of the hot cascade playing down his aching and bruised body. Ricky's death was still fresh in his mind, watching him reduced to ash. Another bone in his body, somewhere, healed itself and popped back into it's proper place. It didn't even bring a grunt forth, he'd been dealing with the same thing for about two hours now. The only thought that eclipsed his friend's death was being called the worst name in all of history: Judas Iscariot.
The creature from the bar had told him he'd been named before. That awful name. Why? Then almost immediately after he received his only clue in the form of a text describing an ancient cult. He knew the name that was in the message, The Circle of Altu'Rang, he knew them well. He leaned his head against the tile, joining his still clenched hand. They were a small sect, hell bent on destroying the world, not because they're evil, but because they believe they're the utmost and purest form of good. They felt it was their duty to bring hell unto the heathen masses of human kind. He'd dealt with them once before when they caused one of the ugliest wars in history: The Civil War.
A muscle in his shoulder righted itself, feeling like a burning slug under his skin trying to find a home, he gritted his teeth. If the cult was back then that means that, now, as a Paladin, Jon's duty was to stop them. He had already declared death upon them in God's name. He passed their sentence as judge. Now he needed to be executioner. He finished his shower, putting mental effort for the rest of his body to heal itself, before letting his usually jovial mind sink to thoughts of war.
Even as Jon dressed and made plans of action the name kept playing in the background, like static, and instead of letting it distract him he used it. Turned it into anger, hate, power. Words slipped forth through the fog of planning, giving him new abilities, 'Michaelis Gladio' turned his hands into orange blades of fire. 'Illuminas Aureos' was a mistake to say inside, shooting a solid beam of orange power, flame, and anger forth from his eyes, blowing out four or five of the giant windows in his apartment. 'Pessulum Custos' was the last of them, and it left the immortal in awe. He watched in wonder as blue lightning danced across his hands, his extended fingers, arched between the two appendages, slithered over him like snakes made of pure energy.
As amazing as his new found powers were, though, his last encounter with the hooded figures proved they weren't enough. He donned his familiar black suit, but added things to it: A double holster for twin pistols at the small of his back, a knife with ancient relics carved into the steel and an ancient leather sheath joined them, four vials of holy water, two extra clips for the pistols, and his Bible. He left his apartment, dropping off a hefty amount of cash and an apology note to the landlord on his way out, armed to the teeth. As he descended the stairs some old saying came to mind, he couldn't remember where he'd heard it: 'Demons run when a good man goes to war."
The night had a chilly bite to it and he liked it, taking in a deep breath as his new eyes surveyed the city blocks around him bathed in the amber glow of street lights, the symphony of the people that came alive after the sun set played around him. He enjoyed it. Jon started to turn down the street when his eyes caught on something he didn't expect: two hooded figures standing on the street corner opposite him. The world exploded into chaos. Behind him the wall of his apartment building blew apart, sending a cloud of dust and Jon flying to the street with rubble to decorate both.
The immortal quickly found his feet as the two raised their hands, preparing for another attack, he reacted and leaped forward. The ground where he was just a moment ago tore apart with invisible power, as he advanced the two beings separated and began to run in a circle around him, an attempt to flank, but Jon was ready. As quick as thought Jon opened his mouth in a silent scream and unleashed a bolt of energy at the one on his right, not expecting to hit it, but giving it enough reason to have to evade and interrupt the attack. As soon as the geyser of power had left him he dashed as fast as he could towards the one on his left.
The hooded one Jon was now running at reacted by throwing invisible balls of air at him, but he could see them, now, and dodged easily as he closed the gap. The figured wheeled back, it's attack failing, as soon it found itself within arms length of the immortal. At the last possible second Jon jumped as quickly as he could to his right, just as a ball of air flew past him and hit the figure he was about to grab, knocking the robed attacker off it's feet. The immortal spun on the other assailant, now double the distance they were when they began, and stood tall. For a moment the world was silent as the two left standing in this confrontation, each staring the other down.
The figure broke the silence, "We underestimated you, Paladin. It won't happen again." The voice was elderly, and had it not been for the threat laced through the statement, would have easily belonged to a kind and fatherly type of grandparent. "Oh, yes, you will." Jon shot back. The head with the hood upon nodded in a show of supplication. Instead of throwing hands out, like before, the hooded one's hands began to roll something between them, like packing a snowball. Quickly orange light grew from just a spark to a sphere the size of a basketball between them, and then the thing was flung forward. Jon had plenty of anger left and he focused his eyes, his new ability, and let forth a beam of fire and power at the ball.
The beam and the sphere collided, sounding like a crack of lightning and a belt of thunder, lighting up the street the way the lights above could only dream of doing. For a good, long moment, the two powers raged against each other before finally dispelling in a shower of sparks and flames and a chest thumping explosion that shattered all the windows of the cars and buildings lining the street they were on. Hands that had thrown the sphere went up to shield from the cacophony and in doing so made the mistake Jon needed. As they came down Jon's came up, a pistol leveled, and a shot rang out. The hooded figure collapsed as the bullet tore through the hood itself, carrying blood, bone and bits of grey with it.
"NO!" A shriek erupted behind Jon. Without hesitation the immortal spun and leaped, turning his free hand into a glowing blade, plunging it into the middle of the figure on the floor. A grunt came from the mouth hidden by the robe as the garment fell back, revealing something that would have shocked the immortal, had he not been in the white hot grip of rage: a woman in her late fifties, gray hairs streaking through the black curls upon her head, soft skin, and blue eyes. She coughed up a gout of blood upon the immortal's face as he bore down on her, his fingers touching the pavement below the body.
Her eyes were wide with pain and alarm, her pale face decorated with webs of the blood she had just expelled. She began to shake under the power burning in the middle of her body as she stared up at Jon. She looked down at the hand that had been her impending death and back up to his face and reached up. Jon expected pain or a strike of some kind, but he received instead a caress and a smile. His anger faulted for a moment as she spoke her last words, "You haven't...changed a....bit.....Judas...." Her hand fell away and her body shook one last time then became still.
Sirens began to play somewhere off in the distance as Jon stood, holstering his pistol and looking down upon the woman in the robe. He couldn't let this get back to mortal eyes and ears so he ignited his power once more and burned her body, bones, clothing and all, leaving nothing but a bit of ash. With urgency the immortal ran over to the other body and began to search it. In the frenzy of dipping in and out of the robe and it's small pockets only one thing was produced: a note. He took it and burned the body, as well, making a quick departure from the scene.
Many blocks away he took the paper out and began to read. 'When the worst of the sinners becomes the last of the paladins darkness will fall. Fire will rise and the sky will bleed. Unbiased judgement will be passed upon all. Chaos will arise and become the crooked beast. The Children Of Dust will arise and take back their land. When the worst and the last begins Slouching Towards Bethlehem." Jon didn't realize he'd stopped walking, or that it had started raining. 'Child of Dust' was an ancient moniker for an immortal. He wasn't the only one.
He began walking again, not caring about his destination, the note tucked back into his pocket. Words whirled in his head like a tornado out of control. The name Judas, the Children of Dust, and the one that sent chills down his spine, the one phrase that confirmed his fears: Slouching Towards Bethlehem. It meant the end of days.
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