Beyond the cracked sidewalk, and the telephone pole with layers of flyers in a rainbow of colors, and the patch of dry brown grass there stood a ten-foot high concrete block wall, caked with dozens of coats of paint. There was a small shrine at the foot of it, with burnt out candles and dead flowers and a few soggy teddy bears. One word of graffiti filled the wall, red letters on a gold background: Rejoice!
Yet, there was an electric tension in the air; a storm was brewing, but when it would strike, no one knew. The passerby cried and pointed at the single word… condemned it to all damnation. But nobody questioned the perpetrators of the blasphemy. They all knew.
“Bastards!” one of them exclaimed. “Hope they rot in Hell,” added another, face contorted in rage. But some of them were quiet, wearing what almost looked to be smirks upon their hallowed faces. But nobody noticed these men and women as they slinked by, quick to turn their glances before they were found. The sky, grey in the distance, rumbled and roared.
More civilians flocked to the scene as the dismay of the crowd grew, hissing and spitting at the word marked above the teddy bears. A Hispanic woman approached the shrine, her red dreadlocks made into flames by the sunlight. She glared up at the wall and pulled out a can of black spray paint and glossed over the mocking word, the fumes soaking the air with stink.
The crowd cheered and clasped her shoulders in encouragement. She turned towards them and wiped tears from her eyes. The group around her saw this and fell silent. They all knew immediately who the woman was. It had been her son who’d been killed there, killed in a despicable act of urban terrorism. Who else could be crying so much at the defilement?
Tears began to stream more fervently down the woman’s face… a tidal wave of fury and despair. The crowd cleared as she made her way back across the street towards the long-haired bearded man clad in black with a red bandana who stood next to a white baby carriage. Within it was the survivor of the murdered boy: a baby girl by the name of Eleanor. She was the only thing that kept the grief-ridden parents sane… the only thing that kept them alive.
It was then that a cackle emanated from the depths of the cheering crowd: a lude, jeering noise that sounded ungodly in the street. The people quieted and turned about their heads in search of the perpetrator, finally resting on a man donned in a black trench coat.
The man grinned, his lips cracking open to reveal a set of blood-thirsty teeth, and reached into his coat. Those closest to him recognized the man for what he was and backed away, silent at first but soon ripping the air with their screams as their feet scraped against the dilapidated pavement to scramble away from this blood-addled beast. For they knew there was no reasoning with this kind of monster. And this monster was among the worst of them all: he was a Disciple.
A swath around him cleared, and the man had a direct line of sight with the three-piece family who gawked, clamped to the ground. He pulled out a handgun and pointed it at the woman, his leer stretching across his sallow face. The shot tore through the air and echoed in the streets. The Hispanic woman dropped to the earth, blood seeping from her heart as her legs twitched and her mouth gulped for air. Her blood mixed with her red locks and tainted the side of the white baby carriage.
The smiling man licked his parched lips and strode forward with a dog-gaited lope, his gun lowered to his side. The bearded father glanced a single look at his dying wife before looking at the child in the white carriage. He ran. He ran fast, his feet blurring underneath his torso and the wheels of the carriage rumbling against the sidewalk as the baby screeched. The three of them—the father, the child, and the killer—ignored the panic of the crowd as the streets emptied themselves in a frenzy.
The father and daughter disappeared around a corner, and in their place emerged an elderly woman. The slayer did not expect the four bullets that burrowed through his flesh like hot metallic maggots gnashing at a corpse. The old woman smiled, though this was short-lived as a bullet shot past her head from a rooftop across the street. She ducked and followed the path of the blood-stained carriage.
With the blood-drizzled street empty save for the two bodies, a certain kind of static began to echo, though no ears were there to hear it. The greyness in the distance loomed closer, and the thunder chuckled grimly. It knew what would come to transpire.
The deathly wail of an ambulance careened onto the scene, and paramedics leapt out of the back towards the still corpses. A local news van came soon afterwards, and a middle-aged woman with enough makeup to look twenty years younger patted at her hair in preparation for this newest travesty. She smiled and raised the microphone to her lips while the stretchers rolled behind her.
She did not report for long, though. There was an interruption from the other end of the street as a swarm of black trucks and minivans skidded and rocked, and masked Disciples leaned out of the windows, guns drawn and pointed at the paramedics and news crew. The paramedics shoved the gurneys into the back and climbed in, but the bullets found their way through the metal and killed most inside, though not enough to prevent escape.
The reporters, however, were not so lucky. A few shots were fired into the tires, but no immediate harm befell onto their persons. Instead, a truck heavy with death raced up to them and three Disciples leaped out and held the reporters at gunpoint. Another Disciple made sure to keep the camera live and rolling.
Another group of people, men and women alike, helped to swiftly arrange nooses from the rafters of an antique shop directly across from the wall that read “Rejoice!” As they were doing this, more trucks came in and blocked the road at the other end, though some went beyond it, towards the police station.
People were being dragged out of the trucks, gagged and beaten. Most of them held some kind of importance, though many still were hapless nobodies who simply wanted to live their lives in peace. But the Disciples would allow no such thing. America would come to respect them… come to fear them. And then, they would have the world, and all would be united under a single dark banner: worship of the Wyrm. And when that day came, all false gods would be slaughtered, as would those who idolized them.
The Disciples of the Wyrm began to congregate in the street, guns ready and smiles wide. This was the day they would take the city for their own. Any other year and they would have been squashed like bugs. But in that blistering August of 2022, the United States was invested in more hopeless wars than it could manage, and the Disciples took advantage of this. Resources were spread thin through destruction, and there was little to be spent to keep the cult’s growing numbers at bay.
The reporters were taken up to the nooses one by one, the news camera steadied on their fright-tendered bodies. Those who had been bound and gagged were brought to their knees beneath the ropes, rifles drawn and aimed at their skulls. Nobody would miss this message. Not today.
That’s what the boy thought as he stepped out of the stolen armored car, flanked by bodyguards. They were not unsettled by the fact that he murmured and hissed to himself under his breath. This was usual, and of course also why he was their leader; for he alone had direct communication with the Wyrm. He was their salvation.
But Andy Grast was not a boy. No, he was twenty-six years of age, though through some miracle, either genetic or supernatural as he claimed, he still had the visage of a high school heartthrob. His pale face was soft and clean beneath his wavy dark locks parted about the middle. His cheeks, though, were hollow, as though they had been carved out by a butcher, while his fiery eyes were sunken into his face.
The kid strode over to the hostages and smiled sweetly at them. They looked up and became fearful, as they knew all too well who he was. This, after all, was the one who led a small band of high-schoolers from shooting up pep rallies all the way into a nation-wide terrorist epidemic within less than a decade. And their numbers were only growing.
“How you folks doin’ today?” he inquired. He acted as though he were simply partaking in a summertime stroll through the park. “Hot day, isn’t it? I expect it’ll be getting hotter, though. Much hotter. Try to stay cool and enjoy the sunshine while it lasts. I’m sure you’ve noticed that storm over there, yes?”
The hostages nodded, their eyes cast to their feet. Andy chuckled lowly to himself and turned around to face the shrine across the street. He gave a tut-tut-tut and made his way over to it, inspecting the black paint the dead boy’s mother had put over the Disciples’ own graffiti. His eyebrows were furrowed, and his scowl made his face blasphemous to the eyes.
The kid got up onto a milk crate and raised his hand. A murmur went through the crowd and then it fell silent, except for a few people shouting words of encouragement at him. The kid acknowledged them with a nod and a shy smile. In the full light of day, he looked less angry and more beautiful. He waited until people stopped shouting. A siren could be heard, maybe five or ten blocks away. The kid raised the bullhorn, pressed the button, and began to speak.
“Rejoice!” he cried. “Rejoice and bask in the knowledge that our salvation is soon, my disciples. For together, we shall act through the will of the Wyrm and cleanse this land of the scourge Humanity has become, and out from the ashes we shall rise and begin the world anew! Let not that whore’s defilement of our message above her child’s memorial shadow your hearts. No, let it remind you of the work we have yet to do, and let it fuel your holy fire. For the people are blinded, and we must be their light! We must be their shepherds and lead them to the Wyrm!”
The crowd cheered and raised their fists. Andy Grast smiled saintly at them before he raised the bullhorn back to his lips. The first rounds of gunfire could be heard in the distance, though this did not phase those gathered in the street, eager to drink up the words of their leader.
“And why,” he continued as the ends of his dark hair brushed against his sunken cheeks, “do we do the things we do, people ask?” He turned his eyes to the news camera. “Because our world is plagued by us! The very ones who could protect it! Right here in America, those pigs in Washington fatten themselves upon the filth-ridden money of monstrous tycoons. And what of our land? When will we stop defiling it with our excrement? When will we be at peace as a world? How many wars are we fighting as a country at this very moment? North Korea? Isis? Russia? And those are just the ones you still see in the news. But my point is: it will never stop! Not unless we take extreme measures to overthrow this sorry excuse for a democracy and take it for ourselves!”
The approval from Andy’s followers was nearly deafening, so much so that for a few minutes it completely drowned out the firefight that had erupted only a few blocks away between the law and other Disciples of the Wyrm. Andy did not try to get them to calm down, though. Instead, he laughed and joined them, waiting only until the last person had quieted before continuing.
“I would like you all now to turn around and look at the individuals behind you.” He pointed a long, bony finger to the hostages on the other side of the road. “These ‘people,’ as we’re supposed to call them, have been captured by us to be used as a message to the world today. That thing is rolling, correct?” The cameraman gave a thumbs up and continued to film the gagged and bound hostages.
“Good,” Andy said with a lick of his lips. “Because they are going to be very important, and I want the whole world to see. Because each and every one of these people are pigs! They have been offered the chance to join us, but they would rather stick to their blasphemous God and Jesus and all that crap. They have refused to approach the divine beauty that is the Wyrm!”
Andy thrust his foot into the side of a woman’s face, splitting open the skin as he cried, “Whores! Heathens! Barbarians! You are getting exactly what you deserve. My people: look to the rooftops, at those with their heads in the ropes, and take stock of the faces that are the worst of them all! For these are perpetrators of lies and deceit! These rats misinform the world with fear and hatred! Firing squad, line yourselves up, and everyone else back away.”
The quivering crowd followed their master’s words. The kid backed away himself and, with a swift glance at the camera, ran his finger across his Adam’s apple. Within the span of only a few hectic seconds, the firing squad unleashed the powers of God upon the hostages, and the reporters were thrust from the rooftops, dangling and sputtering. The reporters were not shot.
Andy Grast turned his back and strode over to the milk crate. The trench coat flapped about his legs like the wings of a great raven that rode on the tails of death. Before he could reach the milk crate, though, a shot rang through the air and a bullet blasted through his hand. He dropped to his knees and cradled the injury, his teeth bared and his canines sharp. Two more shots whizzed by Andy’s head and found their way into the flesh of two other Disciples.
“Stop!” he shrieked as shots from his own men began to patter against the window of an office building next to the antique shop. “Stop firing and bring him to me! I want to see this vigilante with my own two eyes.”
Andy resumed his position atop the milk crate as he sucked the blood from his wound and allowed it to dribble down his chin. A group of Disciples returned a few minutes later with the bearded man in their clutches, his red bandana pulled over his face. The kid took pleasure in his blackened eye as the first explosions growled in the distance and the thunder grew closer.
The man was pushed to his knees before the prodigious boy, a gun pressed into the back of his skull. Andy suckled on his hand for a moment longer before crouching down to the man’s level, as though he were a disciplining parent. He pulled down the bandana and stuck out his mangled hand beneath the father’s nose.
“Do you smell that?” he asked. “That, my friend, is what you have done. You’ve spilt the blood of the world’s future. I’m not allowed in hospitals, you know. I’m going to have to get some back-alley doctor for this hole you’ve put in me. You know, that’s the blood of the Wyrm beneath your nose. For I am His vessel. And how you’ve angered Him. Oh, how you’ve angered Him. What is your name? The Wyrm is curious.”
The man’s eyes were red, and he trembled like a dog, but his jaw was tight, and his gaze was strong as he raised them to meet the boy’s. Andy noticed that the man didn’t appear to be any older than twenty-three.
“Michael Erikson,” he spat. “And you can tell your Wyrm that I will be more than happy to spill its blood again. For you are nothing but vermin, and I’ll not stand you and your god to destroy my life any longer.”
Andy rose and gave him a stony look before he spoke. “So… you’re the Michael Erikson I’ve heard so much about? Funny. I’ve been eager to meet you. Quite a figure in the scientific community. Quite a figure in the eyes of the Wyrm, too. Tell me, Erikson, why have you attempted to take my life today? Why do you reject the Wyrm?”
Michael laughed and said, “Do you really want to know, Andy? Do you? Because I’ve seen the Wyrm myself. I’ve been a hair’s breadth from being in the shoes you fill now. But unlike you, I looked through the lies and vileness. How else could you describe it? Because of you, I’ve lost friends. Because of you, I had to spend years being tortured in that cell. And now, I’ve lost my son, whose memory you so graciously defiled with words of rejoice, and now I’ve lost my wife, too. And I’ll be damned if you’re not going with them.”
“Really? Is that so? And how can you possibly reconcile murder with murder? This, coming from a man supposedly so self-righteous. I know you were given the opportunity I have, Erikson. But don’t try to tell me you are above me for refusing it. No, you were just too stupid to realize the chance you threw away. And now here we are, face-to-face. You, with a gun at your head, and me, with an army in my pocket. You’ve been shown the way out of the cave, but you prefer to watch the firelit shadows on the wall, whereas I have left the cave and returned with ultimate wisdom. Why do you refuse to leave the cave? Why do you so prefer to watch shadows flicker across the wall?”
Michael scoffed. “You’ve no place to speak of morality, Andy. And I’ve left the cave. You, however, never did. No, instead you became one of those who cast the shadows, telling those who watch that you speak the truth when in reality it is nothing but deception. You are the worst of the worst, Andy. You speak truth, yes, but you sprinkle them amongst lies and deceit, like mixing snow and ash, until it becomes impossible to tell which is which. You talk of corruption and hapless wars, but you yourself lead one right here on a tyrannical power trip. You say that those you hanged were spreaders of lies, hate, and fear, but if that were the case, then it should be yourself swinging from that rope right now.”
The storm was nearly on top of them, while the gunshots were drawing closer; the fight was approaching them. Andy pursed his narrow lips and brushed the hair from his eyes. Though he never turned his gaze, Michael could tell that he was listening to the carnage nearby.
“Do you know what the Wyrm is telling me to do, Erikson? He’s telling me to gut you like a fish. To string you up by your innards next to the mangled corpses of your wife and son. But you know what? I like you, Erikson. I think we’re going to have a lot of fun, you and I. But what were their names? Tell me this, and maybe I won’t listen to the Wyrm. Just maybe I’ll spare your life this one time.”
“My son’s name, the one your men killed not two weeks ago, was Maxwell. And my wife’s name was Rosa. And I hope to all hell that you choke on those names. I hope they get stuck in your throat and make your brain swell.”
Andy made his way to the shrine as the first droplets of rain began to fall. He stopped to look down the street, where the flashes of guns and the screams of the injured could be witnessed. A smoke grenade filled the corner with dense yellow fog, but Andy ignored this for the time being and grasped one of the soggy teddy bears and ripped off its head.
“My gift to you, friend,” he said upon his return. “And I hope you remember this day for the rest of your life. I hope you remember that we were merciful, and that you tell all your friends about how I spared you from the Wyrm.”
Andy’s eyes grew black and red as he handed the teddy bear to Michael. In those darkened eyes, there could be seen vague tendrils wriggling within. Michael gently took the headless bear and stood, the gun now lowered from his head. And as he walked away, beyond the cracked sidewalk, Andy Grast called after him one last word. And that word was “Rejoice.”
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Written by Dagan Billips (Banned in CP) (2018)