The Compass Confederates: Initiated WWIV
The Iron Core of Secrets By Ryan Allen
TERROR SCREAMS AS THE DARK ICE SKY, HOT WITH RED BARREN BLOOD POURS. They’d been feeding for centuries, eyes dark black. They smell the fear of those arrived and arriving as the red void above pours new beings ready for harvesting – a feast. Teeth razor sharp, they lick their mouths ready for the next. Dark, hardened skin, prickling, clawed creatures. They scavenge for food, sniffing and smelling as they hunt the broken, dusty, arid landscape filled with fire. No life, only corpses and screams but no one can hear except them. Fear draws them near. Eyes filled with blood, they scream at one another. It’s their language. Fear, greed, impure heart and humans are delicacies. Blood, a sweet aroma. Suddenly an opening above the barren land appears. Howls from the pits of their stomachs are heard as they scurry towards the gate. All dark stands to attention, their claws grabbing and tearing land, earth and flesh beneath them as they stampede. Their bodies grow in excitement as they try to reach it, only then the sound of the lock shuts. Vibrations transcend across them as they claw at the gate. With every touch, grey smoke burns their fingers as they pull away.
A voice deep within the dark laughed as he walked among them. Legions of scavengers parted in number. Every step carried tremors of power – they knew their master.
‘Brothers and sisters – we will have our time.’
They all heard him. He spoke as vengeance dressed in a tailored black suit and a bloodstained shirt. He wiped the side of his mouth with a handkerchief – face cold and dead eyes bright red. Their king had arrived. His hair was raven black and very long as it lay against his scarlet red train that followed him. He looked at the gate, anger fed him, his nostrils flared and razor teeth were revealed. He screamed a mighty howl as he beat the gates to the upper world hard with sheer force. Every touch sent deafening echoes through the land of the Damned. Dust gathered in the heat. He wasn’t happy. Every creature, big and small, gained strength as they looked and listened. His rant fed them. They knew the master. They roared. His name was Dean. His hands scarred by the gates, deep, black marks formed on his fists as he looked up towards the sky.
‘I will have my vengeance. Be sure of that, Guardians.’
As he spoke blood poured from his hands and wings grew behind him, horns beginning to birth through his skin – his nature revealed. He was the king of the underworld and he wanted more – more power.
He screamed. It deafened all demons as they shivered and fought among themselves. He was ravenous; he picked up a creature ripping it in two. Fire filled the land with every word he uttered.
‘You cannot and will not stop me.’ He flew up to the mountain cliff, overlooking the legion. He turned and punched the rock face. The sheer force of his might sent giant cracks up the mountain at great speed and it smashed into pieces, causing masses of rock debris to fall, crushing the beasts below.
A storm began to build, dust, grit and red sand was moving. Dean tried to stay standing but something was different. He heard voices – not his own. The sounds of gates were shutting around him, one after another as each gate locked. Dean knew he must retreat to the upper world now before all the gates were shut. He flew like a bullet, his black wings outstretched gathering height, locating an opening in the realm sky. There it was, one gate. It was a city he knew well, Brooklyn, New York. He flew through it.
The gates slammed shut.