Horrific Short Stories

They Cannot Deny Us

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The Sirel stands and looks at the mass before him.  He lifts a silver cup in his hands brimming with a thick red fluid.  The large crowd quells and stares up at the prophetic old man.  Balancing the cup in his hand perfectly so that none of the liquid spills onto the table the Sirel watches his pupils.  He ogles over the hundred something boys waiting for him to chant the prayer.  Each boy in the crowd is dressed nearly identically.  They all sport black shirts, pants, coats and short brim caps with rounded off tops. 

The Sirel however is the light in the crowd of darkness.  He has a long white rope with golden embroidery twisted into it in mathematical flowering diamonds.  The man is large and looks to be well over a hundred years old.  His face shows decades more than the elders around him.  When the Sirel speaks he has no teeth and everything comes out with a bit of a slur, “The Gods brought us down upon this grand planet exactly 285 years ago, they fed us from the nip and made us a strong, proud tradition.  It is on this day we celebrate our inception and the humanity it has given us.”

He raises the cup of murky red high into the air and starts chanting in some mysterious language.  The boys at the surrounding tables slowly combine hands and look up at the ceiling.  As the boys look up the room rattles, a deep thunder comes from above and speckles of dust fall from the unpainted concrete.  The Sirel grows aggressive in his chant and the hundred or so boys all at once close their eyes.  As the elder grows to a climax of aggression his hands shake, spilling the red fluid over the brim and onto his fingers.  He nearly yells at the cement as drops of red tap on the table creating a small puddle. 

Right at the end the man hurries the cup to his mouth, chugging half of the fluid and causing the other half to sink into his white beard, staining it.  He sits down, trembling, as two of the other elders closest to him place their hands on his back and one concerningly looks into the eyes of the eldest to assure he’s alright. The boys all look at the plastic plates of food mounting in front of them.  Each has a massive stash before them filled with meats, breads, vegetables and cheeses.  Each boy has a goblet in front of them as waiters come by the tables and start handing out massive vats of red juice.  The boys pour the liquid generously into their goblets and drink before passing the buckets to the next.

As the boys drink they dwindle into conversation with their peers and begin to feast.  The Sirel recovers from his prophetic moment and opens his eyes.  They flash from their dull brown to a vivid yellow before slipping back to their original state.  The room shakes again and the deep rumble of a train passing overhead causes the yellow lights to flicker before resuming their full force.  The windowless room echoes with the booming train and the concrete bellows inward with the weight being placed upon it.  The room survives another passing as the Sirel stares forward to the tightly sealed iron rot door at the far end of the room.

The senior struggles for words but finds he has none left to say.  He lifts his hand up and the sleeve of his robe slips into the puddle he created, staining it purple.  His wrinkled finger points at the iron rot door and too low for anyone to hear the Sirel beings mumbling.  Fear escapes his lips and the entire room of boys ignores him, all much too concerned on the holiday feast. 

The elder to the left of the prophet turns his head for just a second to see those wavering eyes of his teacher remain locked on the door.  The small man beside the prophet gently lifts his head up to place his ear inside his master’s beard.  At first nothing is heard, then Sirel says a single word, “Klaws.”

The little man stands up so fast his chair slams into the wall behind him.  That loud crack silences the room as the Second points to where his master’s eyes are locked and yells at the top of his lungs, “Klaws!” 

The small army of boys all stand at once.  Tables go flying, food gets knocked over, the goblets get spilled and red flows across the floor.  The room becomes quite after the chaos and the nearly inaudible voice of the Sirel is heard for the first time, “Klaws…”

At that instant the door gets smashed so hard a fist-sized dent appears in the middle.  “We shall not fear!” one of the men near the back shouts.

“We shall not fear!” the congregation repeats.

The fist slams into the iron again, denting it further.

“We shall not cower.” The proctor says.

“We shall not cower.” The boys repeat as the vast majority of them back away from that iron door, crushing the banquet with their boots.

“We shall not hide in the shadows, we shall not cower from the beast, we are our own nation, we rule as one, we rule as all.  The land is ours and they cannot deny us.  We tread on holy land, we tread where gods tread, we are the ones, we are the everything and they cannot deny us.”

“They cannot deny us.” The congregation repeats.  The door gets smashed again and the bolts begin to bend. 

“They cannot deny us.”

“They cannot deny us.”

“They cannot deny us.”

One more pound and the door crumbles in.  The concrete shatters and dust flies everywhere.  A hundred eyes turn yellow.  Each boy grows long teeth, their heads lose their hair and their skin turns purple.  Several launch up and stick to the roof like geckos while an army of long devilish tails sprout from their legs. 

The room is filled with this horrendous clicking as one of the brave few in front hisses and a long dual-pronged tongue launches out of his mouth at the dust.  Machineguns fire, several of the demons drop in an instant as the room turns to anarchy.  They swarm everywhere.  They cover the walls, the floors and charge into the dust. 

What finally appears in the dust are several ten foot mechanical soldiers, these machines of war have red slits as eyes and metal flesh which seems to twist and bend as if it were alive.  One of the machines lifts its silver hand and the fingers bend pack revealing a large Gatling gun. The weapon aims blindly into the room and gets three shots off before one of the purple skinned assailant kamikazes its body into the machine.  The demon claws at the machine, ripping into its metal.  The metal regenerates as fast as the beast can rip it apart but several more flood the machine.  The solider crumbles backwards as the beasts rip it limb for limb, as they are finishing up with the contraption two more appear.

The boys mob the two new opponents and begin to overwhelm them.  These robots fight back vigorously, ripping several of the boys apart with blades before getting taken down in a smoking mess.  In the chaos the demons converge on the door and rampage down the long concrete hall.  In this narrow passage are more of the mechanical invaders, but at the end is the prize to be had, the humans in control of the machines.  Half a dozen of the boys sacrifice themselves on the metal executioners as more charge down the hall at full speed. 

The humans at the end fire aimlessly at the creatures which dodge the bullets as if they were parked cars.  Once in range each of the forward aggressors spit their tongues at the humans, one catches a young man in the throat.  The man grabs at the dual prongs in his neck and screams as they churn deep into his throat, turning his veins black.  The boy in a panic heaves his weapon up into his hands and turns on his comrades.  His companions gun the poor fellow down before his finger can touch the trigger, but that second of distraction allows the beasts to jump onto the humans and rip them apart, not allowing a single one to escape. 

By the time the dust settles a single minute has passed and forty boys lay dead along with twenty soldiers and six of their mechanical masterpieces.   The Sirel pushes his hand against his chest and looks upon the onslaught, “Tonight will be known as a night of sorrow, a night of devastation, for tonight is the night we feast upon the masses.  We will never yield.”

He moves his hand away from his chest to reveal the red stain on his robe is more than the wine burned into his sleeve.  The red is of his own creation.  The senior of seniors drops to his knees, coughs once, and breathes his last breath.  The hoard screams in devastation as their faces morph back into those innocent children, except this time each and everyone of them is covered in soot, blood, and dirt.

The nightmares don’t even take a moment to grieve for their fallen leader as the hoard evicts itself from their hideout to feast upon the city above.