It was winter when Beelzebub and his armies returned.
I was a priest in the age of man.
I hoped that might matter. Even when the dark armies gathered all holy men across all regions, I thought we had a purpose.
It was a foolish hope.
Upon his arrival, Beelzebub spoke directly into the minds of everyone on the planet. “Your creator was an invader,” he said. “He took this world for sport! You wonder why divine intervention has not protected you! It is because you were abandoned long ago!”
The Wyrd Interlude:
Faith and flesh trade places beneath a crimson sky. Here, fallen priests wield rusty blades, and mercy cowers in rotten air. This—is wyrd fiction.
It was global chaos.
You’d be surprised how fast things unravel.
“This world was once a place of fire and life!” Beelzebub told us. “And in that heat was beauty and the chaos of the universe. My people! The true evolved forms on this molten rock were robbed of our birthright! That alien which your worshipers call God came along and with tricks and technology we were pushed deep below and he polluted the world with the green life of other worlds and when he was no longer entertained he abandoned you all and left my kind to decay!”
It took no time at all for civilization to fall.
The life we had known lost in flames.
They killed most and kept the rest to be tortured. Enslaved. Bred. Devoured. Made to entertain. Made to serve.
I prayed.
But still another day of battle was forced upon me. We, the holy men, were captured and forced to fight, each victory extending our people’s survival another week.
In the dark a torch whipped past my face and a creature screeched orders.
I knew what he wanted.
On the wall to my left was a rusty short sword and a dented shield no bigger than a hubcap.
Taking both in hand I was shoved along through the darkness until I stepped out into the crimson arena.
The sky was a rolling red sea of clouds and black smoke. The arena was an oversized stone pit with an iron dome encasing us. Corpses of fallen holy men decorated the walls and all creatures and beings of darkness and horror gathered in the stands and some climbed the cage to feast on the fresh corpses. The air stank of sulfur and rot, each breath a bitter reminder that no mercy lingered here.
I knew he was here, watching somewhere, but my eyes couldn’t find him.
I was thrown forward into the dirt. Ten feet from my head lava bubbled from a hole in the ground. It was a minefield of instant death.
I stood and adjusted my white collar. They forced it on me. Part of the reparations, as he saw it. Called us peddlers of the great thief in the sky.
Behind me I heard my competition tossed to the ground. I faced him as he stood. Long curls bounced on either side of his face. We took in one another.
He looked around at our damnation and reluctantly slapped his yarmulke on his head and the crowd cheered.
We weren’t born killers. But we had taken to it quickly. Our eyes were a mirror of each other’s.
There were a few hundred Catholics bunkered away below the stadium. I had been shown them. I’m sure they showed my competitor a similar scene.
Why would I fight to keep them alive? Why would another week matter?
Why? I think every time I stand as a pawn, ready to kill another man.
I believe. I believe in something.
It’s the only thing I have left.
I believe God will return. We just have to outlast this.
A demon screeched and flailed his arms and the crowd erupted with excitement.
They would get to feast on the loser and his people.
What is a man of God to do?
I raised my shield and took a fighting stance.
The man with the curls was too eager and swung quickly and clumsily.. I hesitated for a single heartbeat, shame and pity twisting in my gut—then I struck.
One slash. His throat turned to a red geyser and both his hands clasped the wound in a pointless effort. His eyes met mine and I looked away.
The demons cheered and two scurried past me and I heard his gurgled cries as they tore him apart.
I dared not scan the crowd. I kept my eyes down and left.
I tried not to think of the people I’d just doomed.
Focus on those I saved.
“Pray with me,” I tell any who will listen.
“Pray and believe with me,” I lie, voice trembling.
“Pray.”
The Wyrd Curtain:
Where prayers echo in hollow darkness and each breath tastes of blood, one truth remains: survival in damnation grants no solace. But for the will that is unyielding, the path may endure—and Wyrd Words yet await.