by Poppet
Doors banging, and gunshot after gunshot. He left the microphone on so every one of us could hear. As sure as sin he did it on purpose.
I could have ended it right there. Just laid down on this poor excuse for a mattress and died. But I want to live, so I stood in the doorway, accepting his Christ and Alpha as lord and savior.
How many are left? I have no fucking idea, but he says we’ll be consolidated on one level. The upside is I’ll see how many we are. The downside? He’ll be able to keep a closer eye on us.
I sit down to keep reading the Bible with new urgency. He talks a lot from the books grouped together as the Old Testament. I’ve heard the basic Sunday School spiel before: the Old Testament is before the Jesus guy they all believe is some kind of great Savior. The New Testament is after that.
They killed him, of course, saying it was some kind of sick sacrifice for sin. That seems to be a common theme in the bible.
Blood.
Death.
Sacrifice.
No wonder John and his buddies are nuts if they believe this swill.
They say Christ raised from the dead and ascended to heaven. If I leave here, it will be like a resurrection: out of a stone tomb and into the light, but I won’t ascend to heaven. Hell no. I’ll stay right here on Earth, and make sure Preacher John, his psycho buddies, and every one like him is dead or put away for life.
Look at that! In this hell hole, I found a purpose.
Shit, his precious bible even talks about this in the gospel his bible thumping mother named him for: “And the time will come when anyone who kills you will think that by doing this he is serving God. John 16:2.”
John seemed to offer hope if we believed, kind of like this New Testament before that other big asshole showed up and started wreaking havoc. Something snapped in him after that.
To keep my parts whole, I have to play the role he’s assigned to me: prophet. The first dude, the one that tried to fry me, seemed to see right through me.
I’m book smart, but I’ve never been religious or a bible scholar, and I’ve never acted a day in my life, but it’s time for a crash fucking course.
I read on, taking mental notes as I go. I best be ready for the coming feast.
•
Preacher John:
Nursing my beer, I watch the womb of evil writhe with gyrating bodies. A dance floor packed with sinners looks to me like a parody of an orgy. Breasts swaying, skirts hiked, jeans so low and tight they reveal everything they're sheathing when hips pump their erotic fervor.
Idly scratching the fresh growth on my chin, I lean against the vinyl of the chair, lighting a smoke, exhaling languidly. I like this corner of the earth, it's one of the few places I can still light up indoors. Sucking on penance; burning out my pain at being the bastard who pulled the trigger, planting slugs in Victor's chest. It's a guilt, a shame, a task which has stained a wound on my heart, and it never eases. It's a constant affliction, a reminder that he loved me and I murdered him to fulfill Alpha's will, to close the circle so infinity would once again open her doors to the fallen.
Glaring at the gloomy atmosphere of the club, I have watched the owner for many moons. Julian Saunders is the overlord of this nefarious hovel, and one day I may take his heart for providing a haven for sinners, feeding his lust for money while feasting on the underground levels of this clandestine operation. There are levels here which would shame Satan. Septic levels with rooms for every perversion, and the hordes come to reap offerings on the altar of sadism.
Golgotha is a haven for creatures of the night, masquerading as death, donning ripped stockings, suspender clips and straps fully within view under leather and PVC skirts, highlighting every shaped leg a man could want. This is a satanic smorgasbord of flesh, collecting here to worship sin, here to satisfy every appetite.
The parasites with their plump breasts protruding above tight corsets, their faces painted with temptation's mask, parade as if on auction, waiting for the highest bidder to take them home, to hide them in lockdown, strapped down and flogged for their fetishes.
A petite paramour struts across my view, her skin sheened with effort's gloss, flushed with the perspiration expended for the sake of satisfying lust and ocular appreciation while she performs on the floor against her competition. How long did she dance only to come away empty handed, dissatisfied by the lack of interest despite her displaying lascivious wares in shameful provocation?
She reminds me of Julie. I left her in that pit of shame, keening lachrymose regret at my feet, holding them, kissing them. Disgusted with her insincere groveling for pity, I made her wash her filthy stain off my holy skin. She is aware and in agony. Seth will take care of the damage in my stead.
It took every ounce of mercy I possess not to kick her face off my toes. She makes me livid, with her incessant adherence to her delusions of free will. Women are not free. They are servants.
The platinum blonde sidles closer, the weight of her stare penetrating my reverie.
“Bad day, huh?” speaks softly from my left, coaxing me toward the shrine of the damned; a husky invitation to engage in pointless conversation.
Tilting my head to stare at the bold bitch, the clarity of her eyes surprises me. Rimmed with kohl darker than noctem, fake eyelashes batter bashfully, and she looks away, pink infusing her cheeks with high spots.
She is dressed for the sepulcher, but her chalice is empty. She is looking for a man to fill her cup until it overflows with abundance, with the fruit of life.
Flexing my arm, extending the soft-pack of smokes her way, I knock a filter out with a flick, offering her temptation of a different kind.
Smiling, she takes it, accepting the silence, accepting the trap, dutifully betraying her hormonal deficiency by staring at my arm, tracing my shoulder and neck with a hungry gaze, leaning toward me so I can hold a flame to her face.
Snapping metal open, running a callused thumb across the ridges, I ignite Father's fire, offering her a glimpse of His light. The empty existence of the cursed lures her close to salvation, and she inhales deeply, so much so that her left nipple lifts up from behind her black corset, offering me an ingot of fool's gold before sitting back, exhaling through lips so wet with paint they leave a bloodstain on the filter.
Studiously ignoring her, I stare back at the cradle of hedonism, with their eager crotches kneading together, desperate to get to that itch where only a disciple can reach. The unholy flaunt, men in straps and stupid outfits wear just as much make-up as the clowns beside them.
Sometimes I come here to tempt them with manna, with communion wafers, watching their glazed and dilated eyes announce their servitude to a heaven they'll never see, one they cannot comprehend until they leave this lecherous lair. They follow me out willingly, desperate for another hit of paradise.
Draining my beer, I drop the empty bottle on the floor, staring at the giggling gargoyles dry humping and kissing in the cesspit, drunk on deviant vices, wallowing in their ignorance, their insanity.
So many times I've been tempted to leave this place in flames, letting the burned flesh be an offering on a pyre that reaches heaven's door.
Taking a final toke on my smoke, I stub it out against the wall behind me, dropping it to join the accumulated filth littering black tiles.
The blond leans close, staring at me, clearly desperate to get my attention, trying to subpoena my focus because she is wanton, and wanting.
Slender fingers curl over my bicep, slipping under my tight black death metal t-shirt, hooking my disapproval to her ridiculous face. Garish, white with make-up, trying so hard to look like Kali, and failing miserably.
“Thanks for the smoke.”
I know what she wants. She is deficient, she has no pride, because God doesn't answer her prayers. Until she worships him he'll never hear her, so she can pray as hard as she wants and it won't make an iota of difference to her pathetic existence.
She's so close, craning interest, fawning her decay at me.
>
Grabbing her throat I shove her back against the wall, twisting to put my weight behind it, hissing softly in her ear, “I'll tie you down and fuck you dead. Would you like that?”
Gray eyes stare wide, shock ramming her flesh up and down in fervent exaltation. Lust laces her gaze in a net of submission, her lips parting, gasping excited breath at me, “Yes.”
“I do mean dead, darlin'. I'll fuck you until you crawl. You're an animal and I will fuck you like one.”
Heavy lids droop, and she licks her lips, whispering, “You sound like my idea of a good time.”
So she came here because the reputation of the lower levels precedes common sense. Laughing in her stupid face, I stand, pulling her up by the neck, shoving her in front of me, knotting my fist in her hair, harnessing the swine, walking it toward the exit, towards slaughter.
Alpha makes us work out, he makes us keep our reflexes sharper than our weapons, we are exemplary specimens of mankind. It snares the weak, with their broken wings - blind eyes - dirty knees, they see a shell and lust for deliverance, they lust for penetration, they crave the excavation of their sins from the inside out because they are drawn to disciples like junkies to E.
I've thrown cocaine on gravel and watched women lick the oil stained ground in their slavery to weakness. They crawl and plead, they beg, because they are blind. They cannot see what is right in front of them because lust is a sin so sublime, so intoxicating, it consumes all self-preservation. Their souls recognize what their minds do not; they are doomed until they submit to the wrath of my Alpha.
~ Chapter 19 ~
These people claim to worship me but their words are meaningless, and their hearts are somewhere else
~ Isaiah 29:13
Brandi:
My lil heart is racing. Ohmigosh he's so dominating and shit. It's totally fucking hawt.
Walking outside with me, he keeps me walking too fast, makin' me breathless.
“How'd you get here?” he says in his throaty drawl, that just breaks my knees and makes my thighs tremble.
“We came in Stella's Prius.”
Staying mysterious, he keeps quiet, walking with his hand on my neck, stuck in my hair, the grip firm and makin' me horny.
We reach a black truck with tinted windows, and it bleeps lights inta the darkness when he opens the door and pushes me, “Get in.”
Scrambling up, I can tell he's in such a hurry cos he needs a fuck as bad as me.
How'd I get so goddamn lucky ta land this guy?
He slams the door, walking around and sliding in. Dang, the dude is all legs soaked in denim.
Fuck me. Just lookin' at him is doin' bad things ta me.
Leaning over me, like he's gonna kiss me, I part my lips with a silent squeee, when he pauses a hair away from my face, his hand resting on my shoulder, all heavy and masculine, possessive and sexy as all hell, his muscles all bunched up in here; so handsome with those baby brown eyes. They're big and gullible, like a baby doe out in the woods, long lashes, eyes that steal ya soul.
He smiles for the first time, and I smile back, when his thumb hurts, and I flinch, but then...
Pushed into a bathroom, he blocks the exit, “Clean up. Wash that shit off your face.”
“You're really into the whole dom vibe, huh?”
“Submit to my authority and you might be able to walk tomorrow. It all depends on how forgiving I'm feeling.” Walking in, bending to stare in my face nose to nose, he says so stern, “Do as I tell you. Do not argue. You are here to do as you're told.”
“Uh, what do I call ya?” I ask, feeling a lil intimidated. I ain't tried the sub shit before, but I read the books and boy I am so ready to have him smack my ass until I'm cummin on his leg.
“Your name doesn't matter, and neither does mine. If you want to address me, you can call me Preacher.”
Wow, this is some fucked up in ya face shit.
Preacher?
Is he gonna dress me up in a nun's outfit or summin'?
It's hard ta tell the difference between fantasies and fetishes. But if it gets me laid I'll do whatever he says.
Shoving me hard, he makes me catch my balance on the edge of the shower stall, “Clean up, or I'll scrub your face the hard way.”
“Aaah, 'kay. No need ta get antsy.”
Turning around, I start unlacing my corset cos I can't reach behind, when those big hands grab the back, yanking the hooks apart, leaving me thrilled to my tits at the power in those arms.
Holeeeeeee fuck!
Snagging my skirt he just rips it right off, then shreds my stockings. The sound is so loud and abrasive it's hammering my heart to Vegas.
He balls my wrecked clothes up and throws them in the bath, scouring my body with those incredible eyes. When he stares, I feel like I'm being blessed by a saint.
He exudes so much silent aggression and power, it's totally turning me inside out.
His expression hardens, and he snaps, “Do I have to put you in there and turn the water on myself? Are you stupid, or just pretending you can't understand a direct command?”
“Hold ya horses big daddy.” Fuuuck, why's he so freakin anal?
Getting in the shower, pulling my thong off, I turn the water on, squealing when icy cold hits me.
He comes to shut the door, growling, “Scrub every inch until you are pink, or I'll make you regret ever coming home with me.”
The door slams shut, isolating me, and I turn to the gel, feeling all snoopy when I open it, pouring the smell of him onto my palm, rubbing it everywhere, fingering and teasing cos I just can't stand the wait.
•
19: Andrew:
It’s been hours, and nothing.
No sounds.
Nothing from the overhead speakers.
No food, no water, no manna.
No killing.
I didn’t really make a conscious decision to stand at the door, but I did because I knew I wanted to survive. That’s all.
Others weren’t so lucky. How many? Fuck, it’s impossible to tell. He must have gone through a box of ammo, and then the screaming.
The endless shrieking and death.
I can say the right fucking words, and I can recite the right fucking creeds when I need to. My mom forced me to go to Sunday School with the rest of the neighborhood.
There was one summer when a boy named Peter came. I remember because he was small and we used to pick him up and pass him over our heads. Then we’d collect the change that fell out his pockets. Funny, after that summer, we never saw him again.
All of us bore the names of the Apostles: doubting Thomas, Matthew, Mark, Luke, Philip, James, and even a Simon. The God we learned seemed like a big guy in the sky with a stick, ready to hit like the nuns who rapped our knuckles in school when we did something wrong.
That god has nothing on this fanatic.
I’m scared, but I’m also furious.
An extermination: that’s what he did, like we're some kinda vermin just because we don't follow their savage creed. As if because of some crucifying ideology they're worthy and all other life 'created by the same fucking god' suddenly becomes their nemesis. That is the definition of hypocrisy, and they can quote me on that. To call it anything else would be too kind. It’s like the god of the Jews back in Egypt: the one who brought plagues on the people, and then killed their children. What kind of monster murders helpless, defenseless, babies? For revenge! That is so petty and pathetic that if it wasn't so horrendously revolting and fucked up it would garner pity, and a thick padded room with lots of rubber chew toys for the rabid lunatic.
That’s who John is: the angel of death. Those of us who stood painted the doorposts with the blood of the Lamb, and he passed us over.
Is that the fest he plans? Some kind of Passover celebration? What about those you executed, motherfucker? It was a brutal assassination, a senseless bloodbath that we all had to witness firsthand.
Fuck man! Just thinkin' about it makes me shake like I have
a mental condition.
The air is stale in here, and dust coats everything with a shroud of filth, collectively stifling me. The raw stone was painted over, but now it's worn and tattered, more stone than paint, cold and thick and impenetrable. I try to sleep, but I can’t.
Whenever I close my eyes the memory of those screams races back. They fill my ears, my mind, and make me fucking crazy.
The bible he left in here sits in the corner. It’s been years since I picked one up, but maybe it's time to read a little, refresh my memory. The only way to fight this kind of fire is with the same logic found in the gasoline tanks of the religiously contradicting.
There’s none righteous, not even one. So says the book of Romans, and if that fanatic thinks I won’t turn his own gospel against him, he’s a fool.
When I get the chance, I’m going to give that fucker some of his own medicine. I’m gonna look for some passages to quote over his head, to fling back at him while I wrap my hands around his throat and choke the life out of him.
•
Preacher John:
Stalking to my post while the chick is scrubbing her slut paint and that offensive perfume off, I move to the screens, amazed how the entire facility is purified. In the time it took me to find a new lamb for the flock, God has erased the lives of the sinners, my satanarium is cleaner than wool after he's washed it with blood.
“Thank you, Alpha,” I mumble, looking at the survivors of the Angel of Death.
Evan is reading his bible, so is Andrew, Julie is gone, and the upper floor, directly beneath my level, is prepared with new beds for my devout.
Pressing the intercom to 66, I ask, “Evan, have you eaten tonight?”
He drops the bible in fright, staring up at the ceiling, “No, Preacher.”