Antichrist (Frerard)

26: Big Gay Death Extravaganza

Darkness forevermore, and inevitable, but the waiting game was over.

And still, even in the conclusion: the light at the end of the tunnel, you couldn't help but long for the limbo: a realisation in time with the one that the conclusion was no better than the fight to get there.

The town was scared: the whole world had hidden behind its bedroom door today, and just like that, shadows had come out to play, and really, it was an unfair fight, and that still was an understatement.

The sun was absent from dark cloudy skies, and the weather told every tale that people could no longer speak, because no longer was this rumour, speculation and history: this was right here and this was right now, and this was as real as the cold chill against skin: both human and not quite so human alike.

Fear was unavoidable: fear was everything - the beating in your heart, and the red in your blood, the shape in the corner of your eye, and you were thankful: thankful but unaware.

They were different, though, and from the depths of hell which they crawled from burned red with fire and rage, soon leaving nothing but ash and ember.

This wasn't a burning fire: this wasn't a raging fight, this wasn't fair, this wasn't passion, this wasn't power - this was the ash and desperation it had left behind, because if there ever was a war, it had already been won, and the skies painted black made it rather clear as to who was the victor.

But resilience was human down to the bone, and soon there'd be nothing left, but the determination that had brought them here, and the towns people did try: wooden stakes by the dozen and prayers said by their plenty, but still, darkness sat a top the hill, and soon enough, the wretched hand of darkness would crawl out: bony knuckles and rotting flesh, and take the last hope left.

Faith was powerful, though: faith was all there really was left, and faith was exactly what kept the lights on in the church: the majority of the town crowded in there - afraid and screaming out in cry, but reality was in the truth that they couldn't hide there forever, and it was known like nothing else that one day, they would make their way up onto the hill, and into the graveyard, and die there in the darkness.

It wasn't a spectacular death, to say the least: it was quick and taken without as much of a care, and it was kind of death and destruction you heard of in fairytales, and fucking prayed to stay away from you in real life, but this was a nightmare down to perfection: trees barren and dark - branches twisted and crawling out like wooden fingers of skeletal hands - the world was dead, and soon the church would empty, and the town would meet the same fate.

All there was protecting them from such a fate, even if only temporarily so, was one little crucifix on the church door: faith, and that was all that was the weapon.

But faith, especially in a situation such as this, was nothing more than temporary, and with the rain pounding down on the church door, and the wind howling out a thousand skin tingling curses, the door and the crucifix upon it would soon be nothing.

-

Bob Bryar had very little faith left: his determination comprising of very little other than a stubborn hatred for fanged scum of the earth, and his favourite wooden stake in his coat pocket.

Still, one stubborn man with one weapon was very little when put against an army of apathic, bloodthirsty undead, but of course, Bob Bryar was not alone.

Still, his company wasn't exactly that of a warrior legion, but more so along the lines of the few friends that had stuck by him in this hellhole they regretted to call home, but that didn't seem to matter at all, because maybe, just maybe, Bert had an inkling that they had an edge here.