“And haven’t we been saying that this would happen all along?” Father O’Riely asked as he peered out the window, no longer impressed with the spectacle that lay beyond.

“Oh we’ve all been saying it, Michael,” Father Williams agreed. He sat in a chair facing the open hearth, his eyes locked on the dancing flames. He smoked a cigarette, vacantly tapping the ashes onto the floor. “But it’s not likely that anyone who actually needs the salvation we can provide will listen—not even now.”

“Sad but true.” Father O’Riely added, prying open the Venetians with his fingers. “Here comes another one now.”

“And does he look any better than the rest of them?”

“No, just another wanderer.”

The man shuffled down the road, his body bare except for the gore that coated it. Even from this distance, some hundred yards away, O’Riely noted the empty expression on the man’s face. They had seen many people since the end, and the ones that weren’t being openly hunted were all in a similar state. They hadn’t seen a sane person in days.

The man shuffled past the burning hardware store and into the road. He wove between the smoldering cars that littered his path, automatically sidestepping them and moving closer to the sewer grate that lay just beyond Father O’Riely’s vantage point.

“Stay off the road, Fool,” O’Riely shouted, knowing full well his advice would not be heard or heeded.

“Me thinks you waste your breath, Father.” Williamson tossed his cigarette into the fire, reached down beside his chair and produced a bottle of whiskey from which he took an impressive pull. “And if you don’t keep it down, they may yet find a way to get to us in here.”

“And has your faith so easily deserted you, George?” O’Riely remained glued to the scene unfolding outside. The sewer grate had begun to fill with a brimstone glow, its sole occupant slipping into view. Ignorant of his peril, the man walked ever closer.

“Faith had its place before all this; now we have only our wiles to keep us alive,” Williamson continued as he replaced the whiskey bottle. He pulled another smoke from his pack and lit it; cancer no longer concerned him. “Our place is here in the church; and I, for one, don’t intend to leave the rectory. Why, we would be dead in an instant!”

O’Riely nodded, his acknowledgment unseen. He knew it was true; the ungodly creatures out there would be especially keen to put an end to those who so openly embraced their enemy.

The tentacle had already started to slither from the grate, stretching toward the oblivious man as he continued down the road. Somewhere in the night a chorus of screams rang out, a common refrain in these past days.

The lunatic stopped, raised his head and screamed along with the tormented choir; the sound of his voice speeding the tentacle along its course. It rose up, towering over the wailing man as spikes grew from the bulk of its body, extending until their vicious hooks and barbs were plain. A moment’s pause was the only reprieve the man was afforded before the tentacle fell, coiling around him and dragging him back to its sewer den. The opening was not sufficient, and what could not be dragged down was thrown up in a crimson spray.

From the darkness the wraiths moved in, snatching up anything of substance, and leaving only bloody smudges and smears as proof that the man had ever been. After their ethereal tendrils had swept the ground clean, they receded back into the stygian shadows.

“Lord have mercy,” Father O’Riely said as he made the sign of the cross. “And that’s that?” Williamson asked, his voice smug and self assured.

“I think you know the answer.”

“Indeed I do.”

The Screaming had stopped; outside the window the world was deathly still. They knew it wouldn’t last long.

“Do you think they heard it?” Williamson asked.

“I’m sure of it.” O’Riely looked to the moon, its red face silhouetting a chorus of dark angels. “At least one will be down to check it out.”

As if on cue, a dark mot began to grow in the horizon; a horseman. His dark, gaunt features were juxtaposed by the sea of fire that the city had become. His cadaverous steed’s hooves gave birth to thunderclaps as it galloped through the air, exhaling lightning with each breath. He sat atop this blasphemy, a putrefying giant.

Williamson sprang to his feet, prompted by the sudden cacophony. He had taken an interest in these horsemen, and was always eager to see how the next would look. There had been fifteen so far; and how many more before their time was up? A hell of a lot more than four!

The behemoth made to dismount, the impact of his landing rocking the foundations of the church like an earthquake.

The tentacle rose from the depths and the horseman placed his hand on its exposed underside, branding an insignia into the corrupt flesh. It was their way of keeping score.

“How many does that make, hmm?” Williamson queried.

“Sixteen; and it keeps growing with each one.”

The horseman turned to them, pity and disgust contorting what remained of his face, before mounting his steed and riding off into the night, spewing lightning and illuminating the ruins below.

Between the skyscrapers, the demons strung their kills; countless corpses tethered between the razed buildings, row after row.

With each flash, the lightning revealed new scenes of carnage and death. Banks of flaming eyes stared out from the shells of the surrounding buildings; a legion of demonic stalkers. Dismembered bodies littered the streets.

Father O’Riely shut the blinds and followed Williamson to the fire. “I think I’ll join you after all, Father,” he said as he took his seat alongside the other. “We won’t be having visitors any time soon, I fear.”

“Indeed,” Williamson replied, taking another haul of whiskey. “Indeed.”