"O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell, lead all souls to Heaven, especially those who have most need of your mercy." Monsignor de Kesel knelt in his church at the statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe, rosary clasped in hands, and continued, “Fourth sorrowful mystery: Jesus carried the cross.” The priest had prayed the rosary so often in his 75 years of life, the act took no conscious effort on his part; instead he reflected on the hell he had witnessed within the last three days. He had seen such grotesquery that his faith in God’s benevolence had faltered. Yet he understood the necessity of it all. “The world has so few pure and faithful remaining. This is the God of the Old Testament; His judgment is His love.”
Behind him he heard the creak of the door. A group of them had entered. He knew it immediately. The low moaning, the shuffling footsteps were unmistakable. And the stench was repulsive. “How dare they desecrate the house of the Lord with their putridity?” The anger held him for a moment, but he knew that his baseness was equally inappropriate. If he was to die now, his soul needed to be clean.
De Kesel was confident of his own salvation but his decision not to run was acceptance rather than hubris. No doubt this was the End Time; no other explanation was possible. “We must embrace the will of God. He has already decided our fate.” He looked over his right shoulder; the ghouls had stumbled halfway up the church. He recognized one of his acolytes among the three flesheaters. Fear paralyzed him; a mix of emotions, none individually recognizable, washed over him and brought him to tears.
“Uzzah’s sin was to disobey the will of the Lord. Find your resolve,” said the aged clergyman, his voice growing increasingly strained as he bowed his head, trying to ignore the approaching ghouls. “Hail Mary, mother of God, pray--pray for us sinners.” The smell. The smell. Oh God--they were on him--hands grabbed his arm, a terrible pain ripped through his shoulder as one of them bit him. He was knocked backward, a second set of hands pushing him down; he fell with his knees still trapped beneath his body. Searing pain that burned incredibly. There was screaming, hysterical, but he didn't recognize it as his own. A second mouth ripped the flesh from his cheek, teeth grating against bone, bringing the disgusting creature into his line of vision.
“Unholy! Foul!” Blood filling his mouth. Disgust and anger augmented his pain. The third creature ripped through his shirt and tore into his soft belly with its bare hands. Red flooded Monsignor de Kesel’s eyes. Then--nothing.
No comments:
Post a Comment