Judas: The Relic (The Iscariot Warrior Series Book 2)

by Roy Bright

  Her heart races, and her breathing becomes labored as the small amount of light she had been afforded dims.

  She tells herself to be brave, to have courage but she is just a little girl and little girls are supposed to be afraid of the dark, aren’t they? No, stop it Abigail, she thinks, scolding herself for allowing a babyish fear of the dark to take hold. But as quick as the small portion of bravery arrives it is swept away, as her mind reminds her that there is very much to be afraid of in this dark, that there are horrors and terrors lurking around every corner. She knows that relying on her ability to be unseen by demons will not be enough, such is the cunning of the human’s who now seek her as well, and it is that thought that returns caution, validating her need to be afraid. “There’s nothing wrong with being afraid,” she whispers to herself, “it’s why you are still alive. Now walk down the stairs. Be afraid if you want, but walk down these stairs.” She reaches deep inside herself and finds courage enough to enable her to move her feet, to make tiny steps one after the other. Darkness envelops her and she closes her eyes for a moment, working hard to maintain the slender hold she has on normal breathing. She edges further down, her back against the wall, her small hands feeling the way. Every few steps she stops and listens for a sound, any sound, something that will give away an unwanted presence, a threat to her safety. On hearing nothing she resumes her descent, exploring each step with her feet and hands. Above, she hears something drop down onto the walkway in the same manner as she did and she gasps, throwing her hands up to her mouth.

  Something has come out of the shaft.

  She hears it pattering around on the walkway and she can only imagine that it is searching for her. The desire to flee and her fear of the unknown has her in a deadlock and she doesn’t know what to do. If the thing above is a demon, is it like the others, perceptive and aware, unlike most of the mindless creatures she has come across before, or is it one of the terrible humans that inhabits this place, something that she cannot hide from? Her terror reaches new heights as she hears the footsteps transfer from the walkway to the steps, and they start to make their way down, slow at first then rapid, gaining speed. At certain intervals, she can hear the footsteps jump, sounding as if they clear two or three stairs at a time, then returning to skipping down. They sound light, small, and she wonders if this is one of the children whose handprints were all over the shaft that she had crawled through. She looks around, unable to see anything as the area that she is in is devoid of any light. She holds a hand up in front of her face, confirming that she is unable to see it. Will she get lucky? Will whatever is making its way down the stairs miss her, unable to see, just like she can’t? The footsteps snatch whatever decision she is pondering away, as they bang onto the landing a few steps up from her, echoing around the stairwell. She holds her breath and almost closes her eyes but decides against it, pointless, as she can’t see anyway. She feels a tiny hand grab at her leg, through her skirt and it takes everything she has not to scream, to not raise her face up to the darkness above and screech at the top of her voice, draining her tiny lungs of all air. She tenses and flattens herself up against the wall even further, wishing she could pass through it and into the space behind, leaving whatever has grabbed her here, unable to follow. She hears the sound of it sniffing, inspecting her clothing with its nose and then feels another small hand grab the inside of her leg, holding onto her with both hands.

  “Hi,” a child says, while tugging at her skirt.

  A kid. It’s a kid, she thinks, reaching out with a tentative hand, feeling for his or her head. Locating it, she places a hand upon it. So much hair. She moves her hand down, locating the face and the hair remains, clear to her that it covers the kid’s head in great quantities.

  “Hi,” it says again.

  Her eyes flit back and forth, seeking within the dark. Her mind races. Do I answer? Is it friendly? I’ve touched it now so it knows I’m here. Is it friendly? Is it friendly? She is about to answer its greeting when she hears a snap and the stairwell illuminates around her, a gentle blue. She looks down to see the child staring back at her. Black eyes peek out from behind matted clumps of hair. Her best guess is that it is around four years of age but she is unable to tell if it is a boy or a girl. It holds its hand up to her and in it is held a glowing blue tube. She has seen the soldiers back at the base walking around with these attached to their belts, unaware of what they were for until now. A smile opens up on its face and it is anything but welcoming. A coldness spreads over her and she feels a great amount of unease as her instincts scream that that something is very wrong with this child. Its smile widens into a grin and she was right to be afraid as it reveals its teeth, filed to jagged points. It points at her and then screams, a shriek so shrill, so piercing that it causes her to throw her hands up to her ears. She moves away, down the stairs, further into darkness and it follows her, the blue light traveling with them. She feels a sharp scratch at the back of her legs and she turns around to see the feral child wielding a knife.

  It slashes at her again.

  She holds up her hands to protect herself but the blade cuts one of them causing her to cry out in pain.

  The kid laughs at the top of its voice, a maddening, sardonic laugh brought about by her cry of agony. Its face, illuminated by the pale blue light, looks demented.

  “Please stop,” she cries, tears welling up in her eyes.

  It swings at her again, slashing the blade back and forth. It doesn’t seem to be trying to cut her this time, more intent on elevating her fear for its own sickening benefit.

  She kicks at the child and it springs backward then drops onto all fours, the knife clinking against the steel frame of the steps. It shrieks once again, its grin intensifying, its enjoyment evident. It is about to attack once more when a fresh scream reverberates up the stairwell, deeper and more ferocious than the child’s own. The child edges toward the guardrail and pokes its head out in between the vertical slats, peering over, into the blackness.

  Another scream, this time joined by others, climbing over one another, echoing up the chamber.

  The child pulls its head back as the sound of flesh slapping against metal rings out, drawing closer. At first it seems concentrated in one area but then shifts to all around. Whatever is coming, there are many of them and the child slinks back toward the landing.

  Abigail presses herself up against the wall, praying as she can feel that what approaches is not human.

  The child turns to run, aware that it is in mortal peril, but it is too late. The first of the demons clears the guardrail and pounces, gripping the child and slamming it up against the wall.

  Abigail moves her eyes to the left, her head motionless, her discipline in such situations serving her well. She has never seen a demon such as this before, smaller in comparison to the ones stalking her above, black in color, moving on all fours with huge claws for hands and feet, its eyes positioned on the side of its head. She doesn’t know much about the anatomy of demons but she can tell that this is a hunter, an agile seeker of prey. It terrifies her.

  The creature screams into the feral child’s face and it responds likewise, but not out of defiance; it is now its turn to feel the terror that it had imparted upon Abigail not a moment earlier.

  It peers past the demon, its eyes wide as others clamber over the rail, their sharp teeth glistening silver against the deep black of their bodies.

  They surround the child, skulking and stalking. The one that has it pinned up against the wall moves its head closer and sniffs, working its snout over the child’s head and body.

  Abigail’s eyes snap to the front as the demon looks right at her. It sees me. Oh my God, it sees me. She contemplates making a run for it, a last ditch attempt at her salvation but then realizes that it isn’t her that it is looking at, it is another demon, similar to itself but much bigger, advancing up the stairs toward them. She glances to her right, her head still focused ahead as the creature moves right in front of her.
/>
  It stops and turns its head to her, inches away, looking right into her eyes.

  This time, she knows that it cannot see her but she suspects that it senses something, unsure of what is there.

  It edges toward her, sniffing the air.

  She closes her eyes as she feels its breath against her face, snorting from its nose, and it smells like death, foul, decayed, and rank. She waits for the inevitable, for the beast to sink its teeth into her face; waits for the sound of the others to come tearing down the stairs to take their turn at gorging on her, but it does not come. She opens her eyes a fraction, wondering why it has not attacked and a sliver of relief falls over her as it moves its head away although still looking in her direction. It can’t see me. They can’t see me. I’m safe. I just need to wait it out.

  The creature on the landing, pinning the struggling child against the wall, screeches and the demon in front of Abigail turns its attention to it, offering a scream of its own. This causes its subordinate to lower its head and become submissive, then it moves away from Abigail, up to the landing, clearing three steps at a time.

  She has been holding her breath all this time and her lungs are now burning, telling her it is time to breathe. She purses her lips together and seeps the air out from in between them, her lungs aching in the process as all she wants to do is rush it out and gulp more in as fast as possible. Her lungs empty and she inhales deeply once more with the same care as letting it out, feeling a wave of dizziness hit her that forces her to press her palms against the wall harder to prevent herself from sliding down it. Regaining control, she looks up the stairs, toward the hapless child now caught in the demon’s snare. It looks terrified as it peers up into its eyes.

  The creature lets the child go and it flops to the floor with a thud.

  The leader approaches it, its claws tapping against the metal surface and it leans down and smells the child all over, then looks at its counterparts and moves off in between them as they part to let it through.

  The child looks down at Abigail and in that moment, as despair pours from its eyes, she cannot help but feel sorry for it, wanting to help. She apologizes with her eyes and then shuts them tight, a small tear running down her cheek as the demons sink their teeth into the kid and noisily shred it like a pack of wild dogs.

  Its desperate screams force her to throw her hands up over her ears again, and despite her best efforts to remain quiet she fails to stop a small whimper escaping her lips and so moves her hands from her ears to her mouth to prevent further sound betraying her position. She looks down to see the blue light that the child was carrying hit her feet having rolled down the stairs when it let go of it. She looks up to see the lead creature staring at her. It knows something is wrong. She looks around and, thankful for the light now at her feet, manages to spy a stack of boxes on the landing below that are sat under another ventilation shaft. She gets it now – she must be in the child’s play area and the boxes have been stacked up as a means of gaining entry to the shafts so that it can move around the building. She glances back at the creature and knows that she must make a break for it. The beast may not be able to see her but it knows that something is wrong and that she is moments away from it prowling down to investigate. This time she knows she won’t be as lucky as before. It will find her, and it will kill her. She bolts, praying to herself that the shaft is open and not covered with a grate.

  The demon screams and leaps after the sound of footsteps clanking against metal.

  Small though she may be, Abigail is fast. Very fast. She clears the remaining steps in a flash and scrambles up the boxes and into the shaft. Behind her, she hears the screams of the pack, clambering up around the opening. They may be smaller than the demons she fled above, but even these are still too big to fit into the vent and she suspects not strong enough to smash through the walls as their enormous counterparts. She flees, her pace fueled by terror, and without a single care as to how much sound she is making by slapping her palms and banging her feet against the metal surface. She scrabbles forward, her breathing heavy and tears flooding down her face, pleading with her own mind to get control, to take charge of her fear but her body is finding it impossible to listen. Her panic is now so potent, so powerful that she fails to see a gap in the shaft ahead, an uncovered grate leading to the room below and she yelps as her hands connect with nothing but air and she falls face down to the ground.

  She hits a stack of empty boxes underneath the opening and grunts as they collapse and topple her to the ground. She hits the floor with a small thud; nothing too fierce but enough to knock the wind out of her and then she rolls onto her back, her arms and legs outstretched. Looking up at the hole in the shaft, she laughs through the pain. She had gotten more than lucky, and her laughter intensifies, fueled by shock. After a time, it makes way for sobbing and tears and she places both palms over her face, remaining that way for a short time, talking to herself, reassuring her spirit that she is okay and that she must get up and keep going. At last, she finds enough courage to get to her feet and dust herself down. Looking about she sees that she has fallen into the storeroom of a sportswear shop as all around are shelves filled with boxes of trainers and other sporting goods. She turns in circles, looking for the door then stops as she hears the sound of gunfire coming from somewhere to her left. It ceases, and she looks around once again, desperate to spot an exit. She ducks down a fraction so that she can see past a rack loaded with boxes and spies a door. She runs over to it and then, closing her eyes and praying that it is unlocked, grabs the silver handle and turns it downward. It moves, and the door clicks open. Her face lights up and she takes great care to open it just enough to peer through and check the store. It seems empty and what’s more she can see that the door to the corridor outside is open and that the windows are un-shuttered. She creeps into the room, her eyes darting left and right, searching for any sign of movement that would have her drop to her knees and find cover.

  She sees nothing.

  Growing in bravery, she moves a little faster, still taking great care to focus her attention in as many directions as possible, not wishing to suffer any further surprises. Reaching the open door she peeks outside, looking left and right. The space outside resembles a warzone. Debris and rubble is strewn everywhere, creating crude barricades that will make navigating the wide corridor difficult, but to her great surprise large sections are illuminated from strip lights overhead. Deciding it is now or never, she edges out into the hallway, keeping herself low and concealed as much as she can. She looks left and right, biting her bottom lip and unsure of which way to turn. For some reason, she turns right and takes a few steps forward. She looks back down the corridor and wonders why she hasn’t chosen that direction in which to travel. It looks the same, equally foreboding and yet something speaks to her about her chosen course, something deep inside of her that she cannot explain. She turns back to her headed direction and hurries off, hunkered down, scurrying along the left-hand wall as that side of the corridor has the greatest number of obstacles to hide behind. Another burst of gunfire explodes ahead and she takes cover, then attempts to spot where the noise is coming from.

  Ahead, two men dart across an intersection. One turns around and fires his weapon, screaming at the same time. The weapon stops and he looks down and fiddles with it in a frantic manner. A demon cuts across the gap and pounces on top of him and he screams again this time out of sheer terror as the beast tears into him.

  Abigail ducks down behind the barrier and leans her back against it, peering back the way that she has just come, trying to decide whether she should go back or not. Again, something inside screams at her to continue in the same direction, not to stray from her chosen path. It is a powerful directive that she feels impossible to ignore. Turning around, she peeks over the barricade once more. The path ahead seems clear, even the body of the man has gone, most likely dragged away to be devoured. She ducks back down and takes a few deep breaths then steals out and continues d
own the corridor toward the intersection, using the many barricades for cover. More gunfire rings out and she stops, flattening herself against the wall. She sees nothing and so resumes, taking great care once again to minimize her presence. Reaching the crossroads between the stores, she peeks around the wall examining the corridor to her left and then looks right to her more exposed side, which increases her insecurities, forcing her to make a quick decision on which way to go. Although the path to the left descends into more darkness, as the amount of strip lights that are lit is much fewer than its opposite to the right, she chooses that way, once again guided by an almost supernatural sense of direction. The drop in visibility causes her to move slower than she has up to now, her eyes trying to penetrate the gloom of the corridor, her hands and feet feeling the way, looking for obstacles. She freezes at the sound of a shriek somewhere ahead, then backs up against a shutter, her breathing once again erratic, her heart racing. She doesn’t know how much more of this she can take, how much longer she is going to be able to move around unseen.

  She screams and propels herself away from the shutter as fingers emerge, grabbing her shoulder. She scurries backward on her hands and feet, her attention focused on the wriggling appendages poking out. A familiar voice calls her name. A voice that causes her hyperventilation to cease, for her to hold her breath, and her eyes to open wide. “Isaac?” she says, the terror on her face turning to elation.

  “Abigail, my darling baby sister, it is really you?” His voice is on the very edge of sobbing, the joy of at long last finding his younger sister evident in his shaky tone.